


The Dragon Raised by Wolves

by LTank



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Cousin Incest, Everyone is five years older than they were in the beginning of the series, F/M, Hate to Love, M/M, Multi, POV Multiple, R plus L equals J
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-15
Updated: 2018-05-01
Packaged: 2018-12-15 02:30:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 16
Words: 49,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11796564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LTank/pseuds/LTank
Summary: Jon Snow was raised as the bastard of Winterfell and all his life he had been treated as such. When the king came north, Jon was presented a choice; to go south and squire for Ser Barristan Selmy, a legendary knight of the Kingsguard, or go north and swear the vows of the Night’s Watch to become a brother of the ancient order. Jon made his decision, throwing him onto a road of uncertainty, betrayal, war, and love, forever changing Westerosi history.





	1. Deserter

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first work so let me know how it is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Scenes from AGOT/season 1.

**JON**

The morning had dawned clear and cold, with a crispness that hinted at the end of summer when Brandon Stark drew back the string of the bow with a determined look on his face, and let loose. The arrow flew into the barrels next to the target. Bran stomped in frustration.

Jon Snow, Robb, Bran, and Rickon Stark were in Winterfell's bustling courtyard, with the sounds of work filling the air. Little Rickon was a top his pony, watching his two older brothers, Jon and Robb, help train Bran with the bow and arrow. Jon Snow looked up to see Father, Lord Eddard Stark, and his lady wife, Lady Catelyn Stark, watching from the walkway above them. Jon moved to Bran's side. "Go on," Jon encouraged. "Father's watching." They both looked up to see the encouraging smile of Lord and Lady Stark. "And your mother," he added. 

Bran drew back once again, for what may be the thirtieth try, as Jon had lost count after ten, and let loose. The arrow flew over the target and into the trees, causing a roar of laughter from the watchers. 

"And which one of you was a marksman at ten?" His father, had questioned from above. "Keep practicing, Bran." Father encouraged, a small smile on his face. "Go on."

"Don't think too much, Bran," Jon advised.

"Relax your bow arm," Robb offered.

An arrow was released, and hit the target, right in the center... except it wasn't Bran's. He hadn't even shot his arrow yet. The boys turned to see Arya Stark, their sister, in her blue dress give a terrible curtsy with a bow in hand. They roared with laughter as Bran threw his bow to the ground and began to chase Arya around the courtyard. "Quick Bran! Faster!" Jon called out, laughing. 

"Saddle up lads!" Theon Greyjoy, their Father's ward, said to them as he walked towards them. "A man was captured to receive the king's justice." Theon said grinning, answering their questioning looks. 

Robb began to collect whatever arrows that hadn't disappeared and gave them to Rickon. Rickon would run back and forth between Jon and Robb to deliver the arrows. Jon was organizing the arrows when he felt eyes on him. Jon looked up to see the cold stare of Lady Catelyn.  _Bastard,_ the word went through Jon's head. That's what he was, a boy born out of wedlock. His mother was most likely some common whore for all he knew, but his father was Lord Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell, and Warden of the North, Ned, for short, making him a bastard.

Jon had accepted his fate long ago so he moved toward his horse.

* * *

The man had been taken outside a small holdfast in the hills. Robb thought he was a wildling, his sword sworn to Mance Rayder, the King-beyond-the-Wall. But the man they found bound hand and foot to the holdfast wall awaiting the king’s justice was old and scrawny, not much taller than Robb. He had lost both ears and a finger to frostbite, and he dressed all in black, the same as a brother of the Night’s Watch, except that his furs were ragged and greasy.

The breath of man and horse mingled, steaming, in the cold morning air as his lord father had the man cut down from the wall and dragged before them. Robb and Jon sat tall and still on their horses, with Bran between them on his pony. A faint wind blew through the holdfast gate. Over their heads flapped the banner of the Starks of Winterfell: a grey direwolf racing across an ice-white field.

Father sat solemnly on his horse, long brown hair stirring in the wind. His closely trimmed beard had begun to grow wild white hairs. He had a grim cast to his grey eyes this day, and he seemed not at all the man who would sit before the fire in the evening and talk softly of the age of heroes and the children of the forest. He had taken off Father’s face, Jon thought, and donned the face of Lord Stark of Winterfell. 

Two guardsmen brought the Night's Watchmen up to his lord father. Jon heard him muttering about encountering the Others, but they have been gone for thousands of years. 

"I know I broke my oath," the man said. "And I know I'm a deserter. I should have gone back to the Wall and warned them, but - I saw what I saw. I saw the Others. People need to know. If you can get word to my family... tell them I'm no coward. Tell them I'm sorry." 

Father nodded to the two guardsmen and they dragged the ragged man to the ironwood stump in the center of the square. They forced his head down onto the hard black wood. Lord Eddard Stark dismounted and Theon brought forth the sword. “Ice,” that sword was called. It was as wide across as a man’s hand, and taller even than Robb. The blade was Valyrian steel, spell-forged and dark as smoke. Nothing held an edge like Valyrian steel.

His father peeled off his gloves and handed them to Jory Cassel, the captain of his household guard. He took hold of Ice with both hands and said, “In the name of Robert of the House Baratheon, the First of his Name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, by the word of Eddard of the House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, I do sentence you to die.” He lifted the greatsword high above his head.

Jon moved closer to Bran.  “Keep the pony well in hand,” he whispered. “And don’t look away. Father will know if you do.”

Bran kept his pony well in hand, and did not look away. Jon had made sure of it.

His father took off the man’s head with a single sure stroke. Blood sprayed out across the snow, as red as summerwine. One of the horses reared and had to be restrained to keep from bolting. The snows around the stump drank the blood eagerly, reddening quickly.

The head bounced off a thick root and rolled. It came up near Theon's feet. Theon was a lean, dark youth of twenty-four who found everything amusing. He laughed, put his boot on the head, and kicked it away. “Ass,” Jon muttered, low enough so Theon did not hear. He put a hand on Bran’s shoulder, and Bran looked over at him. “You did well,” Jon told him solemnly. But he was proud of his little brother. A boy of twelve unflinchingly saw a man's head get chopped off.

It seemed colder on the long ride back to Winterfell, though the wind had died by then and the sun was higher in the sky. Bran rode with Jon and Robb, the trio were well ahead of the main party, but Bran's pony struggled hard to keep up with Jon and Robb's horses.

“The deserter died bravely,” Robb said. He was big and broad and growing every day, with his mother’s coloring, the fair skin, red-brown hair, and blue eyes of the Tullys of Riverrun. “He had courage, at the least.”

“No,” Jon said quietly. “It was not courage. This one was dead of fear. You could see it in his eyes, Stark.” Jon and Robb were of the same age, but they did not look alike. Jon was slender where Robb was muscular, dark where Robb was fair, graceful and quick where his half brother was strong and fast.

Robb was not impressed. “The Others take his eyes,” he swore. “He died well. Race you to the bridge?”

“Done,” Jon said, kicking his horse forward. Robb cursed and followed, and they galloped off down the trail, Robb laughing and hooting, Jon silent and intent. The hooves of their horses kicked up showers of snow as they went.

Jon was determined to best Robb in this race. He was ahead, but not by much. The bridge was not too far, it was coming closer. But Robb was proving determined, even with his shrieks of laughter, and soon after, Jon was laughing himself as they raced. They may be half brothers, but Jon had always felt as they were true born brothers. The two had always been close together.

They were approaching the bridge when Robb stopped short. Jon reined in his reins, bringing the horse to a halt. "You hear that?" Robb asked Jon.

"This better not be one of your tricks, Robb," Jon warned his half brother.

"No seriously,  _listen_!"

Robb was right, there was a sound.  _Multiple_ sounds. They were the soft cries of pups, Jon realized. But he couldn't see where the whines were coming from. 

 _"There!"_ Robb pointed. He marched his horse through the snow, Jon right behind him. And that's when he saw it, a direwolf, large as an elkhound, with pups drinking the milk from its dead mother. "Jon," Robb said, turning towards him, "Ride back and tell Father what we have found."

Jon nodded and steered his horse around and raced through the snows back to the main party. He reached the top of a hill when he saw them. He began to wave to catch the attention of the men and shouted,  _“Father, Bran, come quickly, see what Robb has found!”_ Then he turned and rode quickly back to the direwolves.

The men found Jon and Robb on the riverbank north of the bridge, with Jon still mounted beside Robb. The late summer snows had been heavy this moonturn. Robb stood knee-deep in white, his hood pulled back so the sun shone in his hair. He was cradling a pup in his arms while theys talked in hushed, excited voices.

 _"Five wolves!"_ Robb said to him excitedly. "That's incredible!"

Jon had a wide grin to himself as well. "There could be more as well."

The riders picked their way carefully through the drifts, groping for solid footing on the hidden, uneven ground. Jory Cassel and Theon Greyjoy were the first to reach the boys. Theon was laughing and joking as he rode. Jon heard the breath go out of him. “Gods!” he exclaimed, struggling to keep control of his horse as he reached for his sword.

Jory’s sword was already out. “Robb, get away from it!” he called as his horse reared under him.

Robb grinned and looked up from the bundle in his arms. “She can’t hurt you,” he said. “She’s dead, Jory.”

Jon, Jory, and Theon all dismounted as Bran jumped off his pony and ran towards them. 

“What in the seven hells is it?” Theon was saying.

“A wolf,” Robb told him.

“A freak,” Theon said. “Look at the size of it.”

Half-buried in bloodstained snow, a huge dark shape slumped in death. Ice had formed in its shaggy grey fur, and the faint smell of corruption clung to it like a woman’s perfume. Jon glimpsed blind eyes crawling with maggots, a wide mouth full of yellowed teeth. 

“It’s no freak,” Jon said calmly. “That’s a direwolf. They grow larger than the other kind.”

Theon Greyjoy said, “There’s not been a direwolf sighted south of the Wall in two hundred years.”

“I see one now,” Jon replied.

Bran gave a cry of delight as he moved closer to the pup in Robb's arms. The pup was a tiny ball of greyblack fur, its eyes still closed. It nuzzled blindly against Robb’s chest as he cradled it, searching for milk among his leathers, making a sad little whimpery sound. Bran reached out hesitantly. “Go on,” Robb told Bran. “You can touch him.”

Bran gave the pup a quick nervous stroke, then turned to Jon. Jon said, “Here you go.” Jon put a second pup into Bran's arms. “There are five of them.” Bran had sat down in the snow and hugged the wolf pup to his face.

“Direwolves loose in the realm, after so many years,” muttered Hullen, the master of horse. “I like it not.”

“It is a sign,” Jory said.

Father frowned. “This is only a dead animal, Jory,” he said. Yet he seemed troubled. Snow crunched under his boots as he moved around the body. “Do we know what killed her?”

“There’s something in the throat,” Robb told him, proud to have found the answer before his father even asked. Robb had noticed it when Jon rode back. “There, just under the jaw.”

His father knelt and groped under the beast’s head with his hand. He gave a yank and held it up for all to see. A foot of shattered antler, tines snapped off, all wet with blood.

A sudden silence descended over the party. The men looked at the antler uneasily, and no one dared to speak. The antler was no doubt from a stag, the sigil of House Baratheon, who currently rules Westeros. And this stag killed a direwolf, the sigil of House Stark. 

His father tossed the antler to the side and cleansed his hands in the snow. “I’m surprised she lived long enough to whelp,” he said. His voice broke the spell.

“Maybe she didn’t,” Jory said. “I’ve heard tales... maybe the bitch was already dead when the pups came.”

“Born with the dead,” another man put in. “Worse luck.”

“No matter,” said Hullen. “They be dead soon enough too.”

Jon heard Bran give a wordless cry of dismay.

“The sooner the better,” Theon Greyjoy agreed. He drew his sword. “Give the beast here, Bran.”

“No!” Bran cried out fiercely. “It’s mine.”

“Put away your sword, Greyjoy,” Robb said. For a moment he sounded as commanding as their father, like the lord he would someday be, unlike Jon. “We will keep these pups.”

“You cannot do that, boy,” said Harwin, who was Hullen’s son.

“It be a mercy to kill them,” Hullen said.

Jon saw Bran look to Father for rescue, but get only a frown, a furrowed brow. “Hullen speaks truly, son. Better a swift death than a hard one from cold and starvation.”

“No!” Jon saw Bran's eyes becoming glassy before he turned away. Jon couldn't bare to see his brother cry especially when there were enough pups for all the Stark children.

Robb resisted stubbornly. “Ser Rodrik’s red bitch whelped again last week,” he said. “It was a small litter, only two live pups. She’ll have milk enough.”

“She’ll rip them apart when they try to nurse.”

“Lord Stark,” Jon said. He only called his father "Lord Stark" to gain his attention quicker and to get him to listen. “There are five pups,” he told Father. “Three male, two female.”

“What of it, Jon?”

“You have five trueborn children,” Jon said. “Three sons, two daughters. The direwolf is the sigil of your House. Your children were meant to have these pups, my lord.” 

Jon saw his father’s face change and saw the other men exchange glances. Jon had learned young what the word bastard meant and how he would get none of what his siblings would get such as land, wealth, power, or a mother's love. He learned it then and understood it now. It wouldn't be fair to his true born siblings for the bastard to get something they wouldn't. So the count had come right only because Jon omitted himself. He had included the girls, included even Rickon, the youngest, but not himself, the bastard, who bore the surname Snow, the name that custom decreed be given to all those in the North unlucky enough to be born with no name of their own.

Their father understood as well. “You want no pup for yourself, Jon?” he asked softly.

“The direwolf graces the banners of House Stark,” Jon pointed out. “I am no Stark, Father.”

Their lord father regarded Jon thoughtfully. Robb rushed into the silence he left. “I will nurse him myself, Father,” he promised. “I will soak a towel with warm milk, and give him suck from that.”

“Me too!” Bran echoed.

The lord weighed his sons long and carefully with his eyes. “Easy to say, and harder to do. I will not have you wasting the servants’ time with this. If you want these pups, you will feed them yourselves. Is that understood?”

Robb nodded while Bran nodded eagerly as the pup began to lick at his face. Jon's heart rejoiced at the sight. 

“You must train them as well,” their father said. “You must train them. The kennelmaster will have nothing to do with these monsters, I promise you that. And the gods help you if you neglect them, or brutalize them, or train them badly. These are not dogs to beg for treats and slink off at a kick. A direwolf will rip a man’s arm off his shoulder as easily as a dog will kill a rat. Are you sure you want this?”

“Yes, Father,” Bran said.

“Yes,” Robb agreed.

“The pups may die anyway, despite all you do.”

“They won’t die,” Robb said. “We won’t let them die.”

“Keep them, then. Jory, Desmond, gather up the other pups. It’s time we were back to Winterfell.”

Halfway across the bridge was when Jon began to hear something, something like soft cries. Jon pulled up suddenly.

“What is it, Jon?” his lord father asked.

“Can’t you hear it?”

Even with the wind in the trees, the clatter of their hooves on the ironwood planks, the whimpering of the hungry pups,  Jon could hear the soft whimpers of another, different direwolf pup. 

“There,” Jon said. He swung his horse around and galloped back across the bridge. Jon dismounted where the direwolf laid dead in the snow, and kneeled. Jon was hearing the whines of a pup, yet he couldn’t find it. Red eyes appeared out of the snow, away from its mother. His fur was white, where the rest of the litter was grey. His eyes were as red as the blood of the ragged man who had died that morning, and only this pup had opened his eyes while the others were still blind.  Jon scooped up the pup and rode back to the main party, with a smile upon his face.

“He must have crawled away from the others,” Jon said when he rejoined the men.

“Or been driven away,” his father said.

“An albino,” Theon Greyjoy said with wry amusement. “This one will die even faster than the others.”

Jon gave his father’s ward a long, chilling look. “I think not, Greyjoy,” he said. “This one belongs to me.”


	2. The King

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Scenes from AGOT/season 1.

**JON**

Jon, Theon, and Robb were all getting their hairs trimmed. Each of them were shirtless when Winterfell's barber, Tommy, was cutting Robb's whiskers. Theon was leaning on the support beam for the roof, smirking at Robb. Apparently this was amusing to him.

"Why is your mother so dead set on us getting pretty for the king?" Jon asked Robb. All of Winterfell had known for a time, the king, Robert of the House Baratheon, First of His Name, was coming north. The Hand, Jon Arryn, had recently died. So King Robert, Handless, comes north to see his long time friend, Ned Stark, and to most likely offer him the position of the Hand of the King.

"It's for the queen, I bet. I hear she's a sleek bit of mink," Theon Greyjoy answered.

"I hear the prince is a right royal prick," Robb added.

"Think of all those southern girls he gets to stab with his right royal prick," Theon said admiringly.

Tommy patted Robb on the back hard, meaning his work was done. Robb got up and pushed Jon toward Tommy. "Go on, Tommy, shear him good." Robb said while Jon sat down on the bench. "He's never met a girl he likes better than his own hair." Theon laughed at Robb's jape while Jon glared at him. 

Tommy picked up the shear and began to cut Jon's mop of hair.

* * *

"Where's Arya? Sansa, where's your sister?" Lady Catelyn questioned.

Jon stood behind the Starks, Theon Greyjoy to the right of him. As he was a bastard, it would be bad manners to bring a bastard into the king's presence. His father was front in center, with Robb, Sansa, than Bran to the right of him while Lady Catelyn and Rickon were to the left of him. A spot was missing in between Sansa and Bran for Arya. 

Sansa shrugged at Lady Catelyn's question. Sansa Stark was a very beautiful lady. At the age of sixteen, she was a woman. Soon, she'll be married off to one of Father's bannerman or a lord in the South. Sansa took after her mother with her high cheekbones, vivid blue eyes, and thick auburn hair. A shame Jon was never close to her, as she actively tried to stray away from Jon by calling him bastard or half brother.

A skinny boy came running into the courtyard, with a helmet a top his head. His father grabbed the boy and took off the helmet, revealing the face of Arya Stark, his sister. 

"What are you doing with that on?" his father asked.

At fourteen, Arya was more Stark than Tully, with a long face, grey eyes, and brown hair. She's skinny, athletic and complete opposite of her older sister, Sansa, in every way possible. Jon is closest with Arya, both being outcasts in their own regards. Him being a bastard and Arya being the outcast in the ladies of Winterfell, they bonded well together.

"Go on," His father turned behind him and gave Ser Rodrick the helmet.

"Move!" Arya shoved Bran over to get into her place.

The visitors poured through the castle gates in a river of gold and silver and polished steel, three hundred strong, a pride of bannermen and knights, of sworn swords and freeriders. Over their heads a dozen golden banners whipped back and forth in the northern wind, emblazoned with the crowned stag of Baratheon.

Jon knew many of the riders. There came Ser Jaime Lannister with hair as bright as beaten gold, and there Sandor Clegane with his terrible burned face. And the tall boy beside him could only be the crown prince.

Yet the huge man at the head of the column, flanked by two knights in the snow-white cloaks of the Kingsguard, was a stranger to Jon. His father went down to one knee and everyone in the courtyard followed suite. The man vaulted off the back of his warhorse with a roar, and marched up to where Father was kneeling. His father rose, and everyone again followed suite.

"Your Grace," Father greeted. Jon wasn't sure if this was the same Robert Baratheon his father talked about. Twenty years past, when his father and the king had ridden forth to win a throne. His father had told them that the Lord of Storm’s End had been clean-shaven, clear-eyed, and muscled like a maiden’s fantasy. Six and a half feet tall, he told them, saying he towered over lesser men, and when he donned his armor and the great antlered helmet of his House, he became a veritable giant. He’d had a giant’s strength too, he's said, his weapon of choice a spiked iron warhammer that Father could scarcely lift.

King Robert observed his length. "You've got fat," the fat king declared. Ironically, now King Robert had a girth to match his height. His father had last seen the king fourteen years before during Balon Greyjoy’s rebellion, when the stag and the direwolf had joined to end the pretensions of the self-proclaimed King of the Iron Islands. Since then, the king had seemed to have gained at least eight stone if his father’s descriptions were true. He had a beard as coarse and black as iron wire covered his jaw to hide his double chin and the sag of the royal jowls, but nothing could hide his stomach or the dark circles under his eyes.  

His father nodded down to the king's protruding stomach. The king laughed and brought His father into a tight embrace. "Cat!" The king embraced Lady Catelyn like a long-lost sister. He ruffled Rickon's hair and went back to face Ned. "Fourteen years - why haven't I seen you? Where the hell have you been?"

"Guarding the North for you, Your Grace. Winterfell is yours." Ned answered. 

By then the others were dismounting as well, and grooms were coming forward for their mounts. Robert’s queen, Cersei Lannister, came out of the wheelhouse with her younger children.

"Where's the Imp?" Arya asked Sansa.

"Will you shut up?" Sansa snapped.

"Who have we here?" King Robert approached Robb. "You must be Robb." They held a firm handshake.

"My, you're a pretty one," King Robert said to Sansa. She blushed, and looked away shyly.

"Your name is?" King Robert asked his youngest sister.

"Arya," she answered.

King Robert nodded. He moved to Bran. "Oh, show us your muscles." Bran flexed his arm and the king laughed. "You'll be a soldier."

The wueen approached his father and offered her hand. His father knelt in the snow to kiss the queen’s ring. "My queen," he greeted. 

"My queen," Lady Catelyn greeted, dropping to one before rising again. 

No sooner had those formalities of greeting been completed than the king had said to his host, “Take me down to your crypt, Eddard. I would pay my respects.”

"We've been riding for a month, my love. Surely the dead can wait," Queen Cersei protested.

King Robert had looked at her, and her twin brother Jaime had taken her quietly by the arm, and she had said no more. The king called for a lantern and his father and King Robert made their way to the crypts.

"Where’s the Imp?” Arya asked again.

“Where is our brother?” Queen Cersei asked her twin brother. “Go and find the little beast.” she commanded.

* * *

 There were times—not many, but a few—when Jon was glad he was a bastard. As he filled his wine cup once more from a passing flagon, it struck him that this might be one of them.

He settled back in his place on the bench among the younger squires and drank. The sweet, fruity taste of summerwine filled his mouth and brought a smile to his lips.

The Great Hall of Winterfell was hazy with smoke and heavy with the smell of roasted meat and fresh-baked bread. Its grey stone walls were draped with banners. White, gold, crimson: the direwolf of Stark, Baratheon’s crowned stag, the lion of Lannister. A singer was playing the high harp and reciting a ballad, but down at this end of the hall his voice could scarcely be heard above the roar of the fire, the clangor of pewter plates and cups, and the low mutter of a hundred drunken conversations.

It was the fourth hour of the welcoming feast laid for the king. Jon’s brothers and sisters had been seated with the royal children, beneath the raised platform where Lord and Lady Stark hosted the king and queen. In honor of the occasion, his lord father would doubtless permit each child a glass of wine, but no more than that. Down here on the benches, there was no one to stop Jon drinking as much as he had a thirst for.

And he was finding that he had a man’s thirst, to the raucous delight of the youths around him, who urged him on every time he drained a glass. They were fine company, and Jon relished the stories they were telling, tales of battle and bedding and the hunt. He was certain that his companions were more entertaining than the king’s offspring. He had sated his curiosity about the visitors when they made their entrance. The procession had passed not a foot from the place he had been given on the bench, and Jon had gotten a good long look at them all.

His lord father had come first, escorting the queen. She was as beautiful as men said. A jeweled tiara gleamed amidst her long golden hair, its emeralds a perfect match for the green of her eyes. His father helped her up the steps to the dais and led her to her seat, but the queen never so much as looked at him. Jon could see through her smile though.

Next had come King Robert himself, with Lady Stark on his arm. The king was a great disappointment to Jon. His father had talked of him often: the peerless Robert Baratheon, demon of the Trident, the fiercest warrior of the realm, a giant among princes. Jon saw only a fat man, red-faced under his beard, sweating through his silks. He walked like a man half in his cups.

After them came the children. Little Rickon first, managing the long walk with all the dignity of an eight-year-old. Close behind came Robb, in grey wool trimmed with white, the Stark colors. He had the Princess Myrcella on his arm. She was on the cusps of womanhood, not quite thirteen, her hair a cascade of golden curls under a jeweled net. Jon noticed the shy looks she gave Robb as they passed between the tables and the timid way she smiled at him. He decided she was insipid. Robb didn’t even have the sense to realize how stupid she was; he was grinning like a fool.

His half sisters escorted the royal princes. Arya was paired with plump young Tommen, whose white-blond hair was longer than hers. Sansa, drew the crown prince, Joffrey Baratheon. He was sixteen, younger than Jon or Robb, but taller than either, to Jon’s vast dismay. Prince Joffrey had his sister’s hair and his mother’s deep green eyes. A thick tangle of blond curls dripped down past his golden choker and high velvet collar. Sansa looked radiant as she walked beside him, but Jon did not like Joffrey’s pouty lips or the bored, disdainful way he looked at Winterfell’s Great Hall.

He was more interested in the pair that came behind him: the queen’s brothers, the Lannisters of Casterly Rock. The Lion and the Imp; there was no mistaking which was which. Ser Jaime Lannister was twin to Queen Cersei; tall and golden, with flashing green eyes and a smile that cut like a knife. He wore crimson silk, high black boots, a black satin cloak. On the breast of his tunic, the lion of his House was embroidered in gold thread, roaring its defiance. They called him the Lion of Lannister to his face and whispered “Kingslayer” behind his back.

Jon found it hard to look away from him. _This is what a king should look like_ , he thought to himself as the man passed.

Then he saw the other one, waddling along half-hidden by his brother’s side. Tyrion Lannister, the youngest of Lord Tywin’s brood. He was a dwarf, half his brother’s height, struggling to keep pace on stunted legs. They said Tyrion Lannister had green and black eyes, that his hair was so blond it was almost white and his head had a brute’s squashed-in face beneath a swollen shelf of brow. But that wasn’t the case. His head was too large for his body, but his face wasn’t squashed in. He had two green eyes like his siblings, not green and black ones. And his hair wasn’t so blond it was almost white, in fact, it was the darkest of them all. Tyrion Lannister wasn’t ugly, if anything, he was  _handsome._

The last of the high lords to enter were his uncle, Benjen Stark of the Night’s Watch, and his father’s ward, young Theon Greyjoy. Benjen gave Jon a warm smile as he went by. Theon ignored him utterly, but there was nothing new in that. After all had been seated, toasts were made, thanks were given and returned, and then the feasting began.

Jon had started drinking then, and he had not stopped.

Something rubbed against his leg beneath the table. Jon saw red eyes staring up at him. “Hungry again?” he asked. There was still half a honeyed chicken in the center of the table. Jon reached out to tear off a leg, then had a better idea. He knifed the bird whole and let the carcass slide to the floor between his legs. Ghost ripped into it in savage silence. His brothers and sisters had not been permitted to bring their wolves to the banquet, but there were more curs than Jon could count at this end of the hall, and no one had said a word about his pup. He told himself he was fortunate in that too.

His eyes stung. Jon rubbed at them savagely, cursing the smoke. He swallowed another gulp of wine and watched his direwolf devour the chicken.

Dogs moved between the tables, trailing after the serving girls. One of them, a black mongrel bitch with long yellow eyes, caught a scent of the chicken. She stopped and edged under the bench to get a share. Jon watched the confrontation. The bitch growled low in her throat and moved closer. Ghost looked up, silent, and fixed the dog with those hot red eyes. The bitch snapped an angry challenge. She was three times the size of the direwolf pup. Ghost did not move. He stood over his prize and opened his mouth, baring his fangs. The bitch tensed, barked again, then thought better of this fight. She turned and slunk away, with one last defiant snap to save her pride. Ghost went back to his meal.

Jon grinned and reached under the table to ruffle the shaggy white fur. The direwolf looked up at him, nipped gently at his hand, then went back to eating.

“Is this one of the direwolves I’ve heard so much of?” a familiar voice asked close at hand.

Jon looked up happily as his uncle Ben put a hand on his head and ruffled his hair much as Jon had ruffled the wolf’s. “Yes,” he said. “His name is Ghost.”

One of the squires interrupted the bawdy story he’d been telling to make room at the table for their lord’s brother. Benjen Stark straddled the bench with long legs and took the wine cup out of Jon’s hand. “Summerwine,” he said after a taste. “Nothing so sweet. How many cups have you had, Jon?”

Jon smiled.

Ben Stark laughed. “As I feared. Ah, well. I believe I was younger than you the first time I got truly and sincerely drunk.” He snagged a roasted onion, dripping brown with gravy, from a nearby trencher and bit into it. It crunched.

His uncle was sharp-featured and gaunt as a mountain crag, but there was always a hint of laughter in his blue-grey eyes. He dressed in black, as befitted a man of the Night’s Watch. Tonight it was rich black velvet, with high leather boots and a wide belt with a silver buckle. A heavy silver chain was looped round his neck. Benjen watched Ghost with amusement as he ate his onion. “A very quiet wolf,” he observed.

“He’s not like the others,” Jon said. “He never makes a sound. That’s why I named him Ghost. That, and because he’s white. The others are all dark, grey or black.”

“There are still direwolves beyond the Wall. We hear them on our rangings.” Benjen Stark gave Jon a long look. “Don’t you usually eat at table with your brothers?”

“Most times,” Jon answered in a flat voice. “But tonight Lady Stark thought it might give insult to the royal family to seat a bastard among them.”

“I see.” His uncle glanced over his shoulder at the raised table at the far end of the hall. “My brother does not seem very festive tonight.”

Jon had noticed that too. A bastard had to learn to notice things, to read the truth that people hid behind their eyes. His father was observing all the courtesies, but there was tightness in him that Jon had seldom seen before. He said little, looking out over the hall with hooded eyes, seeing nothing. Two seats away, the king had been drinking heavily all night. His broad face was flushed behind his great black beard. He made many a toast, laughed loudly at every jest, and attacked each dish like a starving man, but beside him the queen seemed as cold as an ice sculpture. “The queen is angry too,” Jon told his uncle in a low, quiet voice. “Father took the king down to the crypts this afternoon. The queen didn’t want him to go.”

Benjen gave Jon a careful, measuring look. “You don’t miss much, do you, Jon? We could use a man like you on the Wall.”

Jon swelled with pride. “Robb is a stronger lance than I am, but I’m the better sword, and Hullen says I sit a horse as well as anyone in the castle.”

“Notable achievements.”

“Take me with you when you go back to the Wall,” Jon said in a sudden rush. “Father will give me leave to go if you ask him, I know he will.”

 Uncle Benjen studied his face carefully. “The Wall is a hard place for a boy, Jon.”

“I am almost a man grown,” Jon protested. “I will turn twenty on my next name day, and Maester Luwin says bastards grow up faster than other children.”

“That’s true enough,” Benjen said with a downward twist of his mouth. He took Jon’s cup from the table, filled it fresh from a nearby pitcher, and drank down a long swallow.

“Daeren Targaryen was only fourteen when he conquered Dorne,” Jon said. The Young Dragon was one of his heroes.

“A conquest that lasted a summer,” his uncle pointed out. “Your Boy King lost ten thousand men taking the place, and another fifty trying to hold it. Someone should have told him that war isn’t a game.” He took another sip of wine. “Also,” he said, wiping his mouth, “Daeren Targaryen was only eighteen when he died. Or have you forgotten that part?”

“I forget nothing,” Jon boasted. The wine was making him bold. He tried to sit very straight, to make himself seem taller. “I want to serve in the Night’s Watch, Uncle.”

He had thought on it long and hard, lying abed at night. Robb would someday inherit Winterfell, would command great armies as the Warden of the North. Bran and Rickon would be Robb’s bannermen and rule holdfasts in his name. His sisters Arya and Sansa would marry the heirs of other great houses and go south as mistress of castles of their own. But what place could a bastard hope to earn?

“You don’t know what you’re asking, Jon. The Night’s Watch is a sworn brotherhood. We have no families. None of us will ever father sons. Our wife is duty. Our mistress is honor.”

“A bastard can have honor too,” Jon said. “I am ready to swear your oath.”

“You are a boy of nineteen,” Benjen said. “Not a man, not yet. Until you have known a woman, you cannot understand what you would be giving up.”

“I don’t care about that!” Jon said hotly.

“You might, if you knew what it meant,” Benjen said. “If you knew what the oath would cost you, you might be less eager to pay the price, son.”

Jon felt anger rise inside him. “I’m not your son!”

Benjen Stark stood up. “More’s the pity.” He put a hand on Jon’s shoulder. “Come back to me after you’ve fathered a few bastards of your own, and we’ll see how you feel.”

Jon trembled. “I will never father a bastard,” he said carefully. _“Never!”_ He spat it out like venom.

Suddenly he realized that the table had fallen silent, and they were all looking at him. He pushed himself to his feet.

“I must be excused,” he said with the last of his dignity. He whirled and bolted out of the hall. Ghost followed close at his heels, out into the night.

The yard was quiet and empty. A lone sentry stood high on the battlements of the inner wall, his cloak pulled tight around him against the cold. He looked bored and miserable as he huddled there alone, but Jon would have traded places with him in an instant. Otherwise the castle was dark and deserted. Jon had seen an abandoned holdfast once, a drear place where nothing moved but the wind and the stones kept silent about whatever people had lived there. Winterfell reminded him of that tonight.

The sounds of music and song spilled through the open windows behind him. They were the last things Jon wanted to hear.

“Boy,” a voice called out to him. Jon turned.

Tyrion Lannister was sitting on the ledge above the door to the Great Hall, looking for all the world like a gargoyle. The dwarf grinned down at him. “Is that animal a wolf?”

“A direwolf,” Jon said. “His name is Ghost.” He stared up at the little man, his disappointment suddenly forgotten. “What are you doing up there? Why aren’t you at the feast?”

“Too hot, too noisy, and I’d drunk too much wine,” the dwarf told him. “I learned long ago that it is considered rude to vomit on your brother. Might I have a closer look at your wolf?”

Jon hesitated, then nodded slowly. “Can you climb down, or shall I bring a ladder?”

“Oh, bleed that,” the little man said. He pushed himself off the ledge into empty air. Jon gasped, then watched with awe as Tyrion Lannister spun around in a tight ball, landed lightly on his hands, then vaulted backward onto his legs.

Ghost backed away from him uncertainly.

The dwarf dusted himself off and laughed. “I believe I’ve frightened your wolf. My apologies.”

“He’s not scared,” Jon said. He knelt and called out. “Ghost, come here. Come on. That’s it.”

The wolf pup padded closer and nuzzled at Jon’s face, but he kept a wary eye on Tyrion Lannister, and when the dwarf reached out to pet him, he drew back and bared his fangs in a silent snarl. “Shy, isn’t he?” Lannister observed.

“Sit, Ghost,” Jon commanded. “That’s it. Keep still.” He looked up at the dwarf. “You can touch him now. He won’t move until I tell him to. I’ve been training him.”

“I see,” Lannister said. He ruffled the snow-white fur between Ghost’s ears and said, “Nice wolf.”

“If I wasn’t here, he’d tear out your throat,” Jon said. It wasn’t actually true yet, but it would be.

“In that case, you had best stay close,” the dwarf said. He cocked his oversized head to one side and looked Jon over with his green eyes. “I am Tyrion Lannister.”

“I know,” Jon said. He rose. Standing, he was taller than the dwarf. It made him feel strange.

“You’re Ned Stark’s bastard, aren’t you?”

Jon felt a coldness pass right through him. He pressed his lips together and said nothing.

“Did I offend you?” Lannister said. “Sorry. Dwarfs don’t have to be tactful. Generations of capering fools in motley have won me the right to dress badly and say any damn thing that comes into my head.” He grinned. “You _are_ the bastard, though.”

“Lord Eddard Stark is my father,” Jon admitted stiffly.

Lannister studied his face. “Yes,” he said. “I can see it. You have more of the North in you than your brothers.”

“Half brothers,” Jon corrected. He was pleased by the dwarf’s comment, but he tried not to let it show.

“Let me give you some counsel, bastard,” Lannister said. “Never forget what you are, for surely the world will not. Make it your strength. Then it can never be your weakness. Armor yourself in it, and it will never be used to hurt you.”

Jon was in no mood for anyone’s counsel. “What do you know about being a bastard?”

“All dwarfs are bastards in their father’s eyes.”

“You are your mother’s trueborn son of Lannister.”

“Am I?” the dwarf replied, sardonic. “Do tell my lord father. My mother died birthing me, and he’s never been sure.”

“I don’t even know who my mother was,” Jon said.

“Some woman, no doubt. Most of them are.” He favored Jon with a rueful grin. “Remember this, boy. All dwarfs may be bastards, yet not all bastards need be dwarfs.” And with that, he turned and sauntered back into the feast, whistling a tune. When he opened the door, the light from within threw his shadow clear across the yard, and for just a moment Tyrion Lannister stood tall as a king.


	3. A Choice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Scenes from AGOT/season 1.

**JON**

Jon had been set on joining the Night's Watch. That is where he had decided to serve for the rest of his life. But now he was presented with a choice that will change his life forever. He could take the black once his father rides south with King Robert Baratheon and his two sisters, Sansa and Arya, and his brother Bran, or he could ride with them and squire for Ser Barristan Selmy, and perhaps he could eventually receive a knighthood. 

"The Night's Watch isn't what you think it is Jon," Jon's father said softly, failing to meet his eyes. He placed his hand right hand on Jon's left shoulder. "Your uncle, Benjen, is a good man but most of the men there are rapists, murderers, poachers, men without honor, sent to the Wall as punishment for their crimes. The Night's Watch used to be a great order, but now it isn't. But if you join us south, you will not only be able to see Sansa and Arya and Bran everyday, you will be squiring for Ser Barristan the Bold. As you know, he is one of the finest knights across the Seven Kingdoms and  _you_  will be his squire." Father said, pointing at Jon's chest. "I don't want you to waste the rest of your life rotting away at the Wall when you have so much to experience Jon. I know you want to be with your Uncle Benjen, I understand that. But it isn't as honorable as you may think Jon. Please think about it, we leave within the fortnight." his father said.

Jon at first didn't understand why he would want  _him_  of all people to go south. He is the bastard of Winterfell, nothing more. Jon always wanted to range north of the Wall with his Uncle Benjen and now he could possibly do that. But hearing his father tell him that it is not worth it and he could still see Arya everyday while squiring for Ser Barristan, he knew what he wanted to do.

"Father, I want to go south with you."

His father smiled. "Good now, go outside, I would think you would like to tell Arya and Bran and everyone else of this. I'll tell Sansa of you coming with us. I understand you two aren't exactly close but when the snow falls and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies but the pack survives. We need to be strong together, like a pack. We can't fight amongst ourselves, for winter is coming."

Jon left his father's solar feeling relieved. He hadn't known about the state of the Night's Watch. All he's heard were legends and songs of the brave, honorable men who served the ancient order of the Night's Watch. Jon wouldn't know how he would be able to think himself as honorable when he would have been calling rapists his brother.

Ghost sat by the door to his father's solar, waiting for Jon to rejoin him. He bounded to his feet as soon as he caught sight of Jon. Jon grinned. The direwolf pup loved him. They went everywhere together, and Ghost slept in his room, at the foot of his bed. 

Ghost nipped eagerly at his hand as Jon untied him. Jon made a face and hugged the wolfling tight. Ghost licked his ear, and he grinned.

The boys were at practice in the yard, and since he was a bastard, Jon could not train with the princes. But no matter, he could still see Robb put gallant Prince Joffrey flat on his back. “Come,” he whispered to Ghost.

There was a window in the covered bridge between the armory and the Great Keep where you had a view of the whole yard. That was where they headed.

The window was open, so Jon sat on the sill, one leg drawn up languidly to his chin. He was watching the action, so absorbed that he was unaware of Arya approaching until Ghost moved to meet them. Nymeria stalked closer on wary feet. Ghost, already larger than his litter mates, smelled her, gave her ear a careful nip, and settled back down.

Jon gave her a curious look. “Shouldn’t you be working on your stitches, little sister?”

Arya made a face at him. “I wanted to see them fight.”

He smiled. “Come here, then.”

Arya climbed up on the window and sat beside him, to a chorus of thuds and grunts from the yard below. The younger boys drilling. Bran was so heavily padded he looked as though he had belted on a featherbed, and Prince Tommen, who was plump to begin with, seemed positively round. They were huffing and puffing and hitting at each other with padded wooden swords under the watchful eye of old Ser Rodrik Cassel, the master-at-arms, a great stout keg of a man with magnificent white cheek whiskers. A dozen spectators, man and boy, were calling out encouragement, Robb’s voice the loudest among them. Jon spotted Theon Greyjoy beside him, his black doublet emblazoned with the golden kraken of his House, a look of wry contempt on his face. Both of the combatants were staggering. 

"They had been at it awhile," Arya judged.

“A shade more exhausting than needlework,” Jon observed.

“A shade more fun than needlework,” Arya gave back at him. Jon grinned, reached over, and messed up her hair. Arya flushed. They had always been close. They both had their father's face. They were the only ones. Robb and Sansa and Bran and even little Rickon all took after the Tullys, with easy smiles and fire in their hair. Jon remembered when Arya had been little, she had been afraid that meant that she was a bastard too. She went to Jon with her fear, and Jon reassured her that she was not a bastard.

“Why aren’t you down in the yard?” Arya asked him.

Jon gave her a half smile. “Bastards are not allowed to damage young princes,” he said. “Any bruises they take in the practice yard must come from trueborn swords.”

“Oh.”

Jon watched his little brother whack at Tommen. “I could do just as good as Bran,” Arya said. “He’s only twelve. I’m fourteen.”

Jon looked her over with all his nineteen-year-old wisdom. “You’re too skinny,” he said. Jon took her arm to feel her muscle. Then Jon sighed and shook his head. “I doubt you could even lift a longsword, little sister, never mind swing one.”

Arya snatched back her arm and glared at him. Jon messed up her hair again. They watched Bran and Tommen circle each other.

“You see Prince Joffrey?” Jon asked.

Prince Joffrey was to the back, under the shade of the high stone wall. He was surrounded by men , young squires in the livery of Lannister and Baratheon, strangers all. There were a few older men among them; knights. 

Seeing Arya had not found what he had wanted her to find, Jon suggested,  “Look at the arms on his surcoat.”

Arya looked. An ornate shield had been embroidered on the prince’s padded surcoat. No doubt the needlework was exquisite. The arms were divided down the middle; on one side was the crowned stag of the royal House, on the other the lion of Lannister.

“The Lannisters are proud,” Jon observed. “You’d think the royal sigil would be sufficient, but no. He makes his mother’s House equal in honor to the king’s.”

“The woman is important too!” Arya protested.

Jon chuckled. “Perhaps you should do the same thing, little sister. Wed Tully to Stark in your arms.”

“A wolf with a fish in its mouth?” It made Arya laugh. “That would look silly. Besides, if a girl can’t fight, why should she have a coat of arms?”

Jon shrugged. “Girls get the arms but not the swords. Bastards get the swords but not the arms. I did not make the rules, little sister.”

There was a shout from the courtyard below. Prince Tommen was rolling in the dust, trying to get up and failing. All the padding made him look like a turtle on its back. Bran was standing over him with upraised wooden sword, ready to whack him again once he regained his feet. The men began to laugh.

“Enough!” Ser Rodrik called out. He gave the prince a hand and yanked him back to his feet. “Well fought. Lew, Donnis, help them out of their armor.” He looked around. “Prince Joffrey, Robb, will you go another round?”

Robb, already sweaty from a previous bout, moved forward eagerly. “Gladly.”

Joffrey moved into the sunlight in response to Rodrik’s summons. His hair shone like spun gold. He looked bored. “This is a game for children, Ser Rodrik.”

Theon Greyjoy gave a sudden bark of laughter. “You are children,” he said derisively.

“Robb may be a child,” Joffrey said. “I am a prince. And I grow tired of swatting at Starks with a play sword.”

“You got more swats than you gave, Joff,” Robb said. “Are you afraid?”

Prince Joffrey looked at him. “Oh, terrified,” he said. “You’re so much older.” Some of the Lannister men laughed.

Jon looked down on the scene with a frown. “Joffrey is truly a little shit,” Jon told Arya.

Ser Rodrik tugged thoughtfully at his white whiskers. “What are you suggesting?” he asked the prince.

“Live steel.”

“Done,” Robb shot back. “You’ll be sorry!”

The master-at-arms put a hand on Robb’s shoulder to quiet him. “Live steel is too dangerous. I will permit you tourney swords, with blunted edges.”

Joffrey said nothing, but a tall man with black hair and burn scars on his face, Sandor Clegane, pushed forward in front of the prince. “This is your prince. Who are you to tell him he may not have an edge on his sword, Ser?”

“Master-at-arms of Winterfell, Clegane, and you would do well not to forget it.”

“Are you training women here?” Sandor Clegane wanted to know. He was muscled like a bull.

“I am training _knights_ ,” Ser Rodrik said pointedly. “They will have steel when they are ready. When they are of an age.”

Sandor Clegane looked at Robb. “How old are you, boy?”

“Nineteen,” Robb said.

“I killed a man at twelve. You can be sure it was not with a blunt sword.”

Jon could see Robb bristle. His pride was wounded. He turned on Ser Rodrik. “Let me do it. I can beat him.”

“Beat him with a tourney blade, then,” Ser Rodrik said.

Joffrey shrugged. “Come and see me when you’re older, Stark. If you’re not too old.” There was laughter from the Lannister men.

Robb’s curses rang through the yard. Jon noticed Arya cover her mouth in shock. Theon Greyjoy seized Robb’s arm to keep him away from the Prince. Ser Rodrik tugged at his whiskers in dismay.

Joffrey feigned a yawn and turned to his younger brother. “Come, Tommen,” he said. “The hour of play is done. Leave the children to their frolics.”

That brought more laughter from the Lannisters, more curses from Robb. Ser Rodrik’s face was beet-red with fury under the white of his whiskers. Theon kept Robb locked in an iron grip until the Princes and their party were safely away.

Jon watched them leave. Finally Jon climbed down off the window. “The show is done,” Jon said. He bent to scratch Ghost behind the ears. Ghost rose and rubbed against him. “You had best run back to your room, little sister. Septa Mordane will surely be lurking. The longer you hide, the sterner the penance. You’ll be sewing all through winter. When the spring thaw comes, they will find your body with a needle still locked tight between your frozen fingers.”

Arya didn’t think it was funny. “I hate needlework!” she said with passion. “It’s not fair!”

"If it helps," Jon began, "I'll be joining you south."

Arya looked up to him with wide eyes and then leaped into his arms, hugging him fiercely. 

"I'll need you to help me deal with Sansa in the south. I didn't think I could deal with Sansa alone."

Jon laughed softly before gently putting her down. "She's not that bad."

Arya scoffed. "She's terrible Jon." She said. "What will you be doing down south?"

"I'm going to squire for Ser Barristan."

Arya grinned at him. "I'm glad your not going north, Jon."

Jon smiled at her. "Me too little sister. Now run back to your room." Jon messed up her hair again and walked away from her, Ghost moving silently beside him. Nymeria started to follow too, then stopped and turned when she saw that Arya was not coming.

* * *

The festive spirit died with Bran's fall. Winterfell didn't seem to be the excited and happy place it was before the king showed up. Now, Winterfell was somber. Everyone was affected by the little lord's fall, whether it was an accident or not. The Starks were all very upset and distraught since Bran fell. Jon had to comfort Arya a lot and remind her that Bran was strong and will pull through, even though Jon had his own doubts. When Maester Luwin said he would live, everyone breathed a sigh of relief knowing Bran will be alive, except for Lady Catelyn, who sat by Bran's bed day and night waiting for Bran to wake. Robb had been worried about her since she still hasn't left Bran's side.

But as the days were dwindling down, so were the days left in Winterfell. Today, King Robert and his company leaves for King's Landing, that meant Father, Sansa, Arya and Jon would be leaving today as well. As Jon was waiting to leave, he was at the Winterfell's blacksmith, Mikken, getting the gift he has been preparing for Arya when he was interrupted by Jaime Lannister. “A sword for King's Landing?" the Kingslayer asked.

Jon turned around to see Ser Jaime Lannister not in his usual Kingsguard armor, just in a white doublet and breeches with leather boots. "I already have one."

"Good man. Have you swung it yet?"

"'Course I have."

"At someone I mean." Jon didn't answer causing Jaime to make a face and walk towards him. "Strange thing you know, the first time you cut a man. You realize we're nothing but sacks of meat and blood and some bone to keep it all standing." he said. " So, I hear you want to get a knighthood, is that right?"

"Aye."

"Well let me thank you ahead of time," Jaime stuck out his hand and Jon took it, "for protecting the innocent from the horrors of the world with your life. We're grateful to have good, strong men like you doing these very nobly tasks."

Jaime let go of his hand and started to walk away but Jon interrupted by asking, "But we're knights."

Jaime turned halfway around. "Is it 'we' already? Have you taken your vows then?"

"Soon enough."

The Kingslayer shrugged. "In that case, I should start calling your Ser Snow, correct? No that doesn't sound right, Ser Jon?"

"It doesn't matter," Jon said.

The Kingslayer had an amused expression upon his face. "Very well," he said, "until Kingslanding, ser." he said mockingly. He walked away.

Jon turned back toward Mikken, who had just finished the gift for Arya. They shared an expression, an uneasy feeling rose in the both of them.

Arya was in her room, packing a polished ironwood chest that was bigger than she was. Nymeria was helping. Arya would only have to point, and the wolf would bound across the room, snatch up some wisp of silk in her jaws, and fetch it back. But when she smelled Ghost, she sat down on her haunches and yelped at them.

Arya glanced behind her, saw Jon, and said, "Septa Mordane says I have to do it again. My things weren’t properly folded, she says. A proper southron lady doesn’t just throw her clothes inside her chest like old rags, she says.”

“Is that what you did, little sister?”

“Well, they’re going to get all messed up anyway,” she said. “Who cares how they’re folded?”

“Septa Mordane,” Jon told her. “It's good you've got help.” The she-wolf regarded him silently with her dark golden eyes.

"Watch," Arya turned to her direwolf. "Nymeria, gloves" she commanded.

When Nymeria just sat there, Arya nodded her head to the gloves. She whimpered.

"Impressive."

"Shut up," Arya said. "Nymeria, gloves!" she repeated the command.

Nymeria cocked her head.

“I have something for you to take with you, and it has to be packed very carefully.”

Her face lit up. “A present?”

“You could call it that. Close the door.”

Wary but excited, Arya checked the hall. “Nymeria, here. Guard.” She left the wolf out there to warn of intruders and closed the door. By then Jon had pulled off the rags he’d wrapped it in. He held it out to her.

Arya’s eyes went wide. Dark eyes, like his. “A sword,” she said in a small, hushed breath.

The scabbard was soft grey leather, supple as sin. Jon drew out the blade slowly, so she could see the deep blue sheen of the steel. “This is no toy,” he told her. “Be careful you don’t cut yourself. The edges are sharp enough to shave with.”

“Girls don’t shave,” Arya said.

“Maybe they should. Have you ever seen the septa’s legs?”

She giggled at him. “It’s so skinny.”

“So are you,” Jon told her. “I had Mikken make this special. The Braavosi use swords like this in Pentos and Myr and the other Free Cities. It won’t hack a man’s head off, but it can poke him full of holes if you’re fast enough.”

“I can be fast,” Arya said.

“You’ll have to work at it every day.” He put the sword in her hands, showed her how to hold it, and stepped back. “How does it feel? Do you like the balance?”

“I think so,” Arya said.

“First lesson,” Jon said. “Stick them with the pointy end.”

Arya gave him a _whap_ on the arm with the flat of her blade. The blow stung, but Jon found himself grinning like an idiot. “I know which end to use,” Arya said. 

"We're going to a dangerous place Arya. The guards will not treat you like they do here at Winterfell. You have to be careful, very careful. I won't be able to keep and eye on you so you're going to have to watch yourself, okay?"

Arya nodded. Jon messed up her hair. 

Arya ran to him for a last hug. “Put down the sword first,” Jon warned her, laughing. She set it aside almost shyly and hugged him tightly.

"All the best swords have names, you know." Jon said

Arya pondered for a moment, "Sansa can keep her sewing needles. I've got a needle of my own."

Jon let Arya down. "I've got to say goodbye to Bran and then we'll be on our way south, so finish packing." Jon messed up Arya's hair and left the room.

Jon climbed the steps slowly. Ghost padded silently beside him. Outside, snow swirled through the castle gates, and the yard was all noise and chaos, but inside the thick stone walls it was still warm and quiet. Too quiet for Jon’s liking.

He reached the landing and stood for a long moment, afraid. Ghost nuzzled at his hand. He took courage from that. He straightened, and entered the room.

Lady Stark was there beside his bed. She had been there, day and night, for close on a fortnight. Not for a moment had she left Bran’s side. She had her meals brought to her there, and chamber pots as well, and a small hard bed to sleep on, though it was said she had scarcely slept at all. She fed him herself, the honey and water and herb mixture that sustained life. Not once did she leave the room. So Jon had stayed away.

But now there was no more time.

He stood in the door for a moment, afraid to speak, afraid to come closer. The window was open. Below, a wolf howled. Ghost heard and lifted his head.

Lady Stark looked over. For a moment she did not seem to recognize him. Finally she blinked. “What are _you_ doing here?” she asked in a voice strangely flat and emotionless.

“I came to see Bran,” Jon said. “To say good-bye.”

Her face did not change. Her long auburn hair was dull and tangled. She looked as though she had aged twenty years. “You’ve said it. Now go away.”

Part of him wanted only to flee, but he willed himself not to. He took a nervous step into the room. “Please,” he said.

Something cold moved in her eyes. “I told you to leave,” she said. “We don’t want you here.”

Once that would have sent him running. Once that might even have made him cry. Now it only made him angry.  “He’s my brother,” he said.

“Shall I call the guards?”

“Call them,” Jon said, defiant. “You can’t stop me from seeing him.” He crossed the room, keeping the bed between them, and looked down on Bran where he lay.

She was holding one of his hands. It looked like a claw. This was not the Bran he remembered. The flesh had all gone from him. His skin stretched tight over bones like sticks. Under the blanket, his legs bent in ways that made Jon sick. His eyes were sunken deep into black pits; open, but they saw nothing. The fall had shrunken him somehow. He looked half a leaf, as if the first strong wind would carry him off to his grave.

Yet under the frail cage of those shattered ribs, his chest rose and fell with each shallow breath.

“Bran,” he said, “I’m sorry I didn’t come before. I was afraid.” He could feel the tears rolling down his cheeks. Jon no longer cared. “Don’t die, Bran. Please. We’re all waiting for you to wake up. Me and Robb and the girls, everyone... ”

Lady Stark was watching. She had not raised a cry. Jon took that for acceptance. Outside the window, the direwolf howled again. The wolf that Bran had not had time to name.

“I have to go now,” Jon said. "Father is waiting. I'm to go south to Kingslanding. We have to leave today, before the snow comes." He remembered how excited Bran had been at the prospect of the journey. It was more than he could bear, the thought of leaving him behind like this. Jon brushed away his tears, leaned over, and kissed his brother lightly on the brow.

“I wanted him to stay here with me,” Lady Stark said softly.

Jon watched her, wary. She was not even looking at him. She was talking to him, but for a part of her, it was as though he were not even in the room.

“I prayed for it,” she said dully. “He was my special boy. I went to the sept and prayed seven times to the seven faces of god that Ned would change his mind and leave him here with me. Sometimes prayers are answered.”

Jon did not know what to say. “It wasn’t your fault,” he managed after an awkward silence.

Her eyes found him. They were full of poison. “I need none of your absolution, bastard.”

Jon lowered his eyes. She was cradling one of Bran’s hands. He took the other, squeezed it. Fingers like the bones of birds. “Good-bye,” he said.

Eddard Stark has entered the room, watching the scene unfold in front of him. Jon moved past his father, and heard the door close behind him.

It was a long walk down to the yard.

Outside, everything was noise and confusion. Wagons were being loaded, men were shouting, horses were being harnessed and saddled and led from the stables. A light snow had begun to fall, and everyone was in an uproar to be off.

Robb was in the middle of it, shouting commands with the best of them. He seemed to have grown of late, as if Bran’s fall and his mother’s collapse had somehow made him stronger. Grey Wind was at his side.

“Father was looking for you,” he told Jon. “The king wants to leave soon.”

“I know,” Jon said. “Soon.” He looked around at all the noise and confusion. “Leaving is harder than I thought.”

“For me too,” Robb said. He had snow in his hair, melting from the heat of his body. “Did you see him?”

Jon nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

“He’s not going to die,” Robb said. “I know it.”

“You Starks are hard to kill,” Jon agreed. His voice was flat and tired. The visit had taken all the strength from him.

Robb knew something was wrong. “My mother...”

“She was... very kind,” Jon told him.

Robb looked relieved. “Good.” He smiled. “The next time I see you, I'll be lord of Winterfell.”

Jon smiled back. “It was about time you become a man. How long do you think it will be?”

“Soon enough,” Robb promised. He pulled Jon to him and embraced him fiercely. “Farewell, Snow.”

Jon hugged him back. “And you, Stark. Take care of Bran.”

“I will.” They broke apart and looked at each other. Robb nodded to him and left him. Jon looked around the Winterfell courtyard one last time and took a heavy sigh. He mounted his horse.


	4. The Kingsroad

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Scenes from AGOT/season 1.

  **SANSA**

Eddard Stark had left before dawn, Septa Mordane informed Sansa as they broke their fast. “The king sent for him. Another hunt, I do believe. There are still wild aurochs in these lands, I am told.”

“I’ve never seen an aurochs,” Sansa said, feeding a piece of bacon to Lady under the table. The direwolf took it from her hand, as delicate as a queen.

Septa Mordane sniffed in disapproval. “A noble lady does not feed dogs at her table,” she said, breaking off another piece of comb and letting the honey drip down onto her bread.

“She’s not a dog, she’s a direwolf,” Sansa pointed out as Lady licked her fingers with a rough tongue. “Anyway, Father said we could keep them with us if we want.”

The septa was not appeased. “You’re a good girl, Sansa, but I do vow, when it comes to that creature you’re as willful as your sister Arya.” She scowled. “And where is Arya this morning?”

“She wasn’t hungry,” Sansa said, knowing full well that her sister had probably stolen down to the kitchen hours ago and wheedled a breakfast out of some cook’s boy.

“Do remind her to dress nicely today. The grey velvet, perhaps. We are all invited to ride with the queen and Princess Myrcella in the royal wheelhouse, and we must look our best.”

Sansa already looked her best. She had brushed out her long auburn hair until it shone, and picked her nicest blue silks. She had been looking forward to today for more than a week. It was a great honor to ride with the queen, and besides, Prince Joffrey might be there. Her betrothed. Just thinking it made her feel a strange fluttering inside, even though they were not to marry for years and years. Sansa did not really _know_ Joffrey yet, but she was already in love with him. He was all she ever dreamt her prince should be, tall and handsome and strong, with hair like gold. She treasured every chance to spend time with him, few as they were. The only thing that scared her about today was Arya. Arya had a way of ruining everything. You never knew what she would do. “I’ll tell her,” Sansa said uncertainly, “but she’ll dress the way she always does.” She hoped it wouldn’t be too embarrassing. “May I be excused?”

“You may.” Septa Mordane helped herself to more bread and honey, and Sansa slid from the bench. Lady followed at her heels as she ran from the inn’s common room.

Outside, she stood for a moment amidst the shouts and curses and the creak of wooden wheels as the men broke down the tents and pavilions and loaded the wagons for another day’s march. The inn was a sprawling three-story structure of pale stone, the biggest that Sansa had ever seen, but even so, it had accommodations for less than a third of the king’s party, which had swollen to more than four hundred with the addition of her father’s household and the freeriders who had joined them on the road.

She found Arya on the banks of the Trident, trying to hold Nymeria still while she brushed dried mud from her fur. The direwolf was not enjoying the process. Arya was wearing the same riding leathers she had worn yesterday and the day before.

“You better put on something pretty,” Sansa told her. “Septa Mordane said so. We’re traveling in the queen’s wheelhouse with Princess Myrcella today.”

“I’m not,” Arya said, trying to brush a tangle out of Nymeria’s matted grey fur. “Mycah and I are going to ride upstream and look for rubies at the ford.”

“Rubies,” Sansa said, lost. “What rubies?”

Arya gave her a look like she was so stupid. “ _Rhaegar’s_ rubies. This is where King Robert killed him and won the crown.”

Sansa regarded her scrawny little sister in disbelief. “You can’t look for rubies, the princess is expecting us. The queen invited us both.”

“I don’t care,” Arya said. “The wheelhouse doesn’t even have windows, you can’t see a thing.”

“What could you want to see?” Sansa said, annoyed. She had been thrilled by the invitation, and her stupid sister was going to ruin everything, just as she’d feared. “It’s all just fields and farms and holdfasts.”

“It is _not_ ,” Arya said stubbornly. “If you came with us sometimes, you’d see.”

“I _hate_ riding,” Sansa said fervently. “All it does is get you soiled and dusty and sore.”

Arya shrugged. “Hold _still_ ,” she snapped at Nymeria, “I’m not hurting you.” Then to Sansa she said, “When we were crossing the Neck, Jon and I counted thirty-six flowers we've never saw before, and Mycah showed me a lizard-lion.”

Sansa shuddered. They had been twelve days crossing the Neck, rumbling down a crooked causeway through an endless black bog, and she had hated every moment of it. The air had been damp and clammy, the causeway so narrow they could not even make proper camp at night, they had to stop right on the kingsroad. Dense thickets of halfdrowned trees pressed close around them, branches dripping with curtains of pale fungus. Huge flowers bloomed in the mud and floated on pools of stagnant water, but if you were stupid enough to leave the causeway to pluck them, there were quicksands waiting to suck you down, and snakes watching from the trees, and lizard-lions floating half-submerged in the water, like black logs with eyes and teeth.

None of which stopped Arya, of course. One day she came back grinning her horsey grin, her hair all tangled and her clothes covered in mud, clutching a raggedy bunch of purple and green flowers for Father. Sansa kept hoping he would tell Arya to behave herself and act like the highborn lady she was supposed to be, but he never did, he only hugged her and thanked her for the flowers. That just made her worse.

Then it turned out the purple flowers were called _poison kisses_ , and Arya got a rash on her arms. Sansa would have thought that might have taught her a lesson, but Arya laughed about it, and the next day she rubbed mud all over her arms like some ignorant bog woman just because her friend Mycah told her it would stop the itching. She had bruises on her arms and shoulders too, dark purple welts and faded green-and-yellow splotches, Sansa had seen them when her sister undressed for sleep. How she had gotten _those_ only the seven gods knew.

Arya was still going on, brushing out Nymeria’s tangles and chattering about things she’d seen on the trek south. “Last week we found this haunted watchtower, and the day before we chased a herd of wild horses. You should have seen them run when they caught a scent of Nymeria.” The wolf wriggled in her grasp and Arya scolded her. “Stop that, I have to do the other side, you’re all muddy.”

“You’re not supposed to leave the column,” Sansa reminded her. “Father said so.”

Arya shrugged. “I didn’t go far. Anyway, Jon, Ghost, and Nymeria were with me the whole time. I don’t always go off, either. Sometimes it’s fun just to ride along with the wagons and talk to people.”

Sansa knew all about the sorts of people Arya liked to talk to: squires and grooms and serving girls, old men and naked children, rough-spoken freeriders of uncertain birth. Arya would make friends with anybody. This Mycah was the worst; a butcher’s boy, thirteen and wild, he slept in the meat wagon and smelled of the slaughtering block. Just the sight of him was enough to make Sansa feel sick, but Arya seemed to prefer his company to hers.

Sansa was running out of patience now. “You have to come with me,” she told her sister firmly. “You can’t refuse the queen. Septa Mordane will expect you.”

Arya ignored her. She gave a hard yank with the brush. Nymeria growled and spun away, affronted. “Come _back_ here!”

“There’s going to be lemon cakes and tea,” Sansa went on, all adult and reasonable. Lady brushed against her leg. Sansa scratched her ears the way she liked, and Lady sat beside her on her haunches, watching Arya chase Nymeria. “Why would you want to ride a smelly old horse and get all sore and sweaty when you could recline on feather pillows and eat cakes with the queen?”

“I don’t like the queen,” Arya said casually. Sansa sucked in her breath, shocked that even _Arya_ would say such a thing, but her sister prattled on, heedless. “She won’t even let me bring Nymeria.” She thrust the brush under her belt and stalked her wolf. Nymeria watched her approach warily.

“A royal wheelhouse is no place for a _wolf_ ,” Sansa said. “And Princess Myrcella is afraid of them, you know that.”

“Myrcella is a little baby.” Arya grabbed Nymeria around her neck, but the moment she pulled out the brush again the direwolf wriggled free and bounded off. Frustrated, Arya threw down the brush. “ _Bad_ wolf!” she shouted.

Sansa couldn’t help but smile a little. The kennelmaster once told her that an animal takes after its master. She gave Lady a quick little hug. Lady licked her cheek. Sansa giggled. Arya heard and whirled around, glaring. “I don’t care what you say, I’m going out riding.” Her long horsey face got the stubborn look that meant she was going to do something willful.

“Gods be true, Arya, sometimes you act like such a child,” Sansa said. “I’ll go by myself then. It will be ever so much nicer that way. Lady and I will eat all the lemon cakes and just have the best time without you.”

She turned to walk off, but Arya shouted after her, “They won’t let you bring Lady either.” She was gone before Sansa could think of a reply, chasing Nymeria along the river.

Alone and humiliated, Sansa took the long way back to the inn, where she knew Septa Mordane would be waiting. Lady padded quietly by her side. She was almost in tears. All she wanted was for things to be nice and pretty, the way they were in the songs. Why couldn’t Arya be sweet and delicate and kind, like Princess Myrcella? She would have liked a sister like that.

Sansa could never understand how two sisters, born only two years apart, could be so different. It would have been easier if Arya had been a bastard, like their half brother Jon. She even looked like Jon, with the long face and brown hair of the Starks, and nothing of their lady mother in her face or her coloring. And Jon’s mother had been common, or so people whispered. Once, when she was littler, Sansa had even asked Mother if perhaps there hadn’t been some mistake. Perhaps the grumkins had stolen her real sister. But Mother had only laughed and said no, Arya was her daughter and Sansa’s trueborn sister, blood of their blood. Sansa could not think why Mother would want to lie about it, so she supposed it had to be true.

As she neared the center of camp, her distress was quickly forgotten. A crowd had gathered around the queen’s wheelhouse. Sansa heard excited voices buzzing like a hive of bees. The doors had been thrown open, she saw, and the queen stood at the top of the wooden steps, smiling down at someone. She heard her saying, “The council does us great honor, my good lords.”

“What’s happening?” she asked Jon Snow, her bastard brother.

“The council sent riders from King’s Landing to escort us the rest of the way,” he told her. “An honor guard for the king.”

Anxious to see, Sansa let Lady clear a path through the crowd. People moved aside hastily for the direwolf. When she got closer, she saw two knights kneeling before the queen, in armor so fine and gorgeous that it made her blink.

One knight wore an intricate suit of white enameled scales, brilliant as a field of newfallen snow, with silver chasings and clasps that glittered in the sun. When he removed his helm, Sansa saw that he was an old man with hair as pale as his armor, yet he seemed strong and graceful for all that. From his shoulders hung the pure white cloak of the Kingsguard.

His companion was a man near twenty whose armor was steel plate of a deep forestgreen. He was the handsomest man Sansa had ever set eyes upon; tall and powerfully made, with jet-black hair that fell to his shoulders and framed a clean-shaven face, and laughing green eyes to match his armor. Cradled under one arm was an antlered helm, its magnificent rack shimmering in gold.

At first Sansa did not notice the third stranger. He did not kneel with the others. He stood to one side, beside their horses, a gaunt grim man who watched the proceedings in silence. His face was pockmarked and beardless, with deepset eyes and hollow cheeks. Though he was not an old man, only a few wisps of hair remained to him, sprouting above his ears, but those he had grown long as a woman’s. His armor was iron-grey chainmail over layers of boiled leather, plain and unadorned, and it spoke of age and hard use. Above his right shoulder the stained leather hilt of the blade strapped to his back was visible; a two-handed greatsword, too long to be worn at his side.

“The king is gone hunting, but I know he will be pleased to see you when he returns,” the queen was saying to the two knights who knelt before her, but Sansa could not take her eyes off the third man. He seemed to feel the weight of her gaze. Slowly he turned his head. Lady growled. A terror as overwhelming as anything Sansa Stark had ever felt filled her suddenly. She stepped backward and bumped into someone.

Strong hands grasped her by the shoulders, and for a moment Sansa thought it was her father, but when she turned, it was the burned face of Sandor Clegane looking down at her, his mouth twisted in a terrible mockery of a smile. “You are shaking, girl,” he said, his voice rasping. “Do I frighten you so much?”

He did, and had since she had first laid eyes on the ruin that fire had made of his face, though it seemed to her now that he was not half so terrifying as the other. Still, Sansa wrenched away from him, and the Hound laughed, and Lady moved between them, rumbling a warning. Sansa dropped to her knees to wrap her arms around the wolf. They were all gathered around gaping, she could feel their eyes on her, and here and there she heard muttered comments and titters of laughter.

“A wolf,” a man said, and someone else said, “Seven hells, that’s a direwolf,” and the first man said, “What’s it doing in camp?” and the Hound’s rasping voice replied, “The Starks use them for wet nurses,” and Sansa realized that the two stranger knights were looking down on her and Lady, swords in their hands, and then she was frightened again, and ashamed. Tears filled her eyes.

Her bastard brother stood over her, with concern in his eyes. He gave her his hand, drew her to her feet. She was close to him, able to smell the scent of Winterfell, the scent of home off him. His dark grey eyes bore into her, concern evident in it.

“Leave her alone,” Prince Joffrey moved towards her. He stood beautiful in blue wool and black leather, his golden curls shining in the sun like a crown. “What is it, sweet lady? Why are you afraid? No one will hurt you. Put away your swords, all of you. The wolf is her little pet, that’s all.” He looked at Sandor Clegane. “And you, dog, away with you, you’re scaring my betrothed.”

The Hound, ever faithful, bowed and slid away quietly through the press. Sansa struggled to steady herself. She felt like such a fool. She was a Stark of Winterfell, a noble lady, and someday she would be a queen. “It was not him, my sweet prince,” she tried to explain. “It was the other one.”

The two stranger knights exchanged a look. “Payne?” chuckled the young man in the green armor.

The older man in white spoke to Sansa gently. “Ofttimes Ser Ilyn frightens me as well, sweet lady. He has a fearsome aspect.”

“As well he should.” the queen had descended from the wheelhouse. The spectators parted to make way for her. “If the wicked do not fear the king’s justice, you have put the wrong man in the office.”

Sansa finally found her words. “Then surely you have chosen the right one, Your Grace,” she said, and a gale of laughter erupted all around her.

“Well spoken, child,” said the old man in white. “As befits the daughter of Eddard Stark. I am honored to know you, however irregular the manner of our meeting. I am Ser Barristan Selmy, of the Kingsguard.” He bowed.

Sansa knew the name, and now the courtesies that Septa Mordane had taught her over the years came back to her. “The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard,” she said, “and Councillor to Robert our king and to Aerys Targaryen before him. The honor is mine, good knight. Even in the far north, the singers praise the deeds of Barristan the Bold.”

The green knight laughed again. “Barristan the Old, you mean. Don’t flatter him too sweetly, child, he thinks overmuch of himself already.” He smiled at her. “Now, wolf girl, if you can put a name to me as well, then I must concede that you are truly our Hand’s daughter.”

Joffrey stiffened beside her. “Have a care how you address my betrothed.”

“I can answer,” Sansa said quickly, to quell her prince’s anger. She smiled at the green knight. “Your helmet bears golden antlers, my lord. The stag is the sigil of the royal House. King Robert has two brothers. By your extreme youth, you can only be Renly Baratheon, Lord of Storm’s End and councilor to the king, and so I name you.”

Ser Barristan chuckled. “By his extreme youth, he can only be a prancing jackanapes, and so I name him.”

There was general laughter, led by Lord Renly himself. The tension of a few moments ago was gone, and Sansa was beginning to feel comfortable... until Ser Ilyn Payne shouldered two men aside, and stood before her, unsmiling. He did not say a word. Lady bared her teeth and began to growl, a low rumble full of menace, but this time Sansa silenced the wolf with a gentle hand to the head. “I am sorry if I offended you, Ser Ilyn,” she said.

She waited for an answer, but none came. As the headsman looked at her, his pale colorless eyes seemed to strip the clothes away from her, and then the skin, leaving her soul naked before him. Still silent, he turned and walked away.

Sansa did not understand. She looked at her prince. “Did I say something wrong, Your Grace? Why will he not speak to me?”

“Ser Ilyn has not been feeling talkative these past nineteen years,” Lord Renly commented with a sly smile.

Joffrey gave his uncle a look of pure loathing, then took Sansa’s hands in his own. “Aerys Targaryen had his tongue ripped out with hot pincers.”

“He speaks most eloquently with his sword, however,” the queen said, “and his devotion to our realm is unquestioned.” Then she smiled graciously and said, “Sansa, the good councillors and I must speak together until the king returns with your father. I fear we shall have to postpone your day with Myrcella. Please give your sweet sister my apologies. Joffrey, perhaps you would be so kind as to entertain our guest today.”

“It would be my pleasure, Mother,” Joffrey said very formally. He took her by the arm and led her away from the wheelhouse, and Sansa’s spirits took flight. A whole day with her prince! She gazed at Joffrey worshipfully. He was so gallant, she thought. The way he had rescued her from Ser Ilyn and the Hound, why, it was almost like the songs, like the time Serwyn of the Mirror Shield saved the Princess Daeryssa from the giants, or Prince Aemon the Dragonknight championing Queen Naerys’s honor against evil Ser Morgil’s slanders.

The touch of Joffrey’s hand on her sleeve made her heart beat faster. “What would you like to do?”

 _Be with you_ , Sansa thought, but she said, “Whatever you’d like to do, my prince.”

Jofftey reflected a moment. “We could go riding.”

“Oh, I _love_ riding,” Sansa said.

Joffrey glanced back at Lady, who was following at their heels. “Your wolf is liable to frighten the horses, and my dog seems to frighten you. Let us leave them both behind and set off on our own, what do you say?”

Sansa hesitated. “If you like,” she said uncertainly. “I suppose I could tie Lady up.” She did not quite understand, though. “I didn’t know you had a dog... ”

Joffrey laughed. “He’s my mother’s dog, in truth. She has set him to guard me, and so he does.”

“You mean the Hound,” she said. She wanted to hit herself for being so slow. Her prince would never love her if she seemed stupid. “Is it safe to leave him behind?”

Prince Joffrey looked annoyed that she would even ask. “Have no fear, lady. I am almost a man grown, and I don’t fight with wood like your brothers. All I need is this.” He drew his sword and showed it to her; a longsword adroitly shrunken to suit a boy of seventeen, gleaming blue steel, castle-forged and double-edged, with a leather grip and a lion’s head pommel in gold. Sansa exclaimed over it admiringly, and Joffrey looked pleased. “I call it Lion’s Tooth,” he said.

And so they left her direwolf and his bodyguard behind them, while they ranged east along the north bank of the Trident with no company save Lion’s Tooth.

It was a glorious day, a magical day. The air was warm and heavy with the scent of flowers, and the woods here had a gentle beauty that Sansa had never seen in the North. Prince Joffrey’s mount was a blood bay courser, swift as the wind, and he rode it with reckless abandon, so fast that Sansa was hard-pressed to keep up on her mare. It was a day for adventures. They explored the caves by the riverbank, and tracked a shadowcat to its lair, and when they grew hungry, Joffrey found a holdfast by its smoke and told them to fetch food and wine for their prince and his lady. They dined on trout fresh from the river, and Sansa drank more wine than she had ever drunk before. “My father only lets us have one cup, and only at feasts,” she confessed to her prince.

“My betrothed can drink as much as she wants,” Joffrey said, refilling her cup.

They went more slowly after they had eaten. Joffrey sang for her as they rode, his voice high and sweet and pure. Sansa was a little dizzy from the wine. “Shouldn’t we be starting back?” she asked.

“Soon,” Joffrey said. “The battleground is right up ahead, where the river bends. That was where my father killed Rhaegar Targaryen, you know. He smashed in his chest, _crunch_ , right through the armor.” Joffrey swung an imaginary warhammer to show her how it was done. “Then my uncle Jaime killed old Aerys, and my father was king. What’s that sound?”

Sansa heard it too, floating through the woods, a kind of wooden clattering, _snack snack snack_. “I don’t know,” she said. It made her nervous, though. “Joffrey, let’s go back.”

“I want to see what it is.” Joffrey turned his horse in the direction of the sounds, and Sansa had no choice but to follow. The noises grew louder and more distinct, the clack of wood on wood, and as they grew closer they heard heavy breathing as well, and now and then a grunt.

“Someone’s there,” Sansa said anxiously. She found herself thinking of Lady, wishing the direwolf was with her.

“You’re safe with me.” Joffrey drew his Lion’s Tooth from its sheath. The sound of steel on leather made her tremble. “This way,” he said, riding through a stand of trees.

Beyond, in a clearing overlooking the river, they came upon a boy and a girl playing at knights. Their swords were wooden sticks, broom handles from the look of them, and they were rushing across the grass, swinging at each other lustily. The boy was years older, a head taller, and much stronger, and he was pressing the attack. The girl, a scrawny thing in soiled leathers, was dodging and managing to get her stick in the way of most of the boy’s blows, but not all. When she tried to lunge at him, he caught her stick with his own, swept it aside, and slid his wood down hard on her fingers. She cried out and lost her weapon.

Prince Joffrey laughed. The boy looked around, wide-eyed and startled, and dropped his stick in the grass. The girl glared at them, sucking on her knuckles to take the sting out, and Sansa was horrified. _“Arya?”_ she called out incredulously.

“Go away,” Arya shouted back at them, angry tears in her eyes. “What are you doing here? Leave us alone.”

Joffrey glanced from Arya to Sansa and back again. “Your sister?” She nodded, blushing. Joffrey examined the boy, an ungainly lad with a coarse, freckled face and thick red hair. “And who are you, boy?” he asked in a commanding tone.

“Mycah,” the boy muttered. He recognized the Prince and averted his eyes. “M’lord.”

“He’s the butcher’s boy,” Sansa said.

“He’s my friend,” Arya said sharply. “You leave him alone.”

“A butcher’s boy who wants to be a knight, is it?” Joffrey swung down from his mount, sword in hand. “Pick up your sword, butcher’s boy,” he said, his eyes bright with amusement. “Let us see how good you are.”

Mycah stood there, frozen with fear.

Joffrey walked toward him. “Go on, pick it up. Or do you only fight little girls?”

“She ast me to, m’lord,” Mycah said. “She _ast_ me to.”

Sansa had only to glance at Arya and see the flush on her sister’s face to know the boy was telling the truth, but Joffrey was in no mood to listen. The wine had made him wild. “Are you going to pick up your sword?”

Mycah shook his head. “It’s only a stick, m’lord. It’s not no sword, it’s only a stick.”

“And you’re only a butcher’s boy, and no knight.” Joffrey lifted Lion’s Tooth and laid its point on Mycah’s cheek below the eye, as the butcher’s boy stood trembling. “That was my lady’s sister you were hitting, do you know that?” A bright bud of blood blossomed where his sword pressed into Mycah’s flesh, and a slow red line trickled down the boy’s cheek.

 _“Stop it!”_ Arya screamed. She grabbed up her fallen stick.

Sansa was afraid. “Arya, you stay out of this.”

“I won’t hurt him... much,” Prince Joffrey told Arya, never taking his eyes off the butcher’s boy.

Arya went for him.

Sansa slid off her mare, but she was too slow. Arya swung with both hands. There was a loud _crack_ as the wood split against the back of the Prince’s head, and then everything happened at once before Sansa’s horrified eyes. Joffrey staggered and whirled around, roaring curses. Mycah ran for the trees as fast as his legs would take him. Arya swung at the prince again, but this time Joffrey caught the blow on Lion’s Tooth and sent her broken stick flying from her hands. The back of his head was all bloody and his eyes were on fire. Sansa was shrieking, “No, no, stop it, stop it, both of you, you’re spoiling it,” but no one was listening. Arya scooped up a rock and hurled it at Joffrey’s head. She hit his horse instead, and the blood bay reared and went galloping off after Mycah. _“Stop it, don’t, stop it!”_ Sansa screamed. Joffrey slashed at Arya with his sword, screaming obscenities, terrible words, filthy words. Arya darted back, frightened now, but Joffrey followed, hounding her toward the woods, backing her up against a tree. Sansa didn’t know what to do. She watched helplessly, almost blind from her tears.

Then a grey blur flashed past her, and suddenly Nymeria was there, leaping, jaws closing around Joffrey’s sword arm. The steel fell from his fingers as the wolf knocked him off his feet, and they rolled in the grass, the wolf snarling and ripping at him, the Prince shrieking in pain. “Get it _off_ ,” he screamed. “Get it _off_!”

Arya’s voice cracked like a whip. _“Nymeria!”_

The direwolf let go of Joffrey and moved to Arya’s side. The Prince laid in the grass, whimpering, cradling his mangled arm. His shirt was soaked in blood. Arya said, “She didn’t hurt you... much.” She picked up Lion’s Tooth where it had fallen, and stood over him, holding the sword with both hands.

Jofftey made a scared whimpery sound as he looked up at her. “No,” he said, “don’t hurt me. I’ll tell my mother.”

 _“You leave him alone!”_ Sansa screamed at her sister.

Arya whirled and heaved the sword into the air, putting her whole body into the throw. The blue steel flashed in the sun as the sword spun out over the river. It hit the water and vanished with a splash. Joffrey moaned. Arya ran off to her horse, Nymeria loping at her heels.

After they had gone, Sansa went to Prince Joffrey. His eyes were closed in pain, his breath ragged. Sansa knelt beside him. “Joffrey,” she sobbed. “Oh, look what they did, look what they did. My poor prince. Don’t be afraid. I’ll ride to the holdfast and bring help for you.” Tenderly she reached out and brushed back his soft blond hair.

His eyes snapped open and looked at her, and there was nothing but loathing there, nothing but the vilest contempt. “Then _go_ ,” he spit at her. “And _don’t touch me_.”

* * *

**Jon**

The fires lit up the woods on the fourth day. It was night, and still no sign of Arya or Nymeria. Jon and his father had been leading the searches and Ghost had been stuck to his side. Jon and his father were calling out Arya's name when Vayon Poole, his father's steward, approached them on horse. "They’ve found her, my lord.”

His father turned quickly. “Our men or Lannister’s?”

“It was Jory,” his steward Vayon Poole replied. “She’s not been harmed.”

“Thank the gods,” Father said. His men had been searching as well as the queen’s men. “Where is she? Tell Jory to bring her here at once.”

“I am sorry, my lord,” Poole told his father. “The guards on the gate were Lannister men, and they informed the Queen when Jory brought her in. She’s being taken directly before the king... ”

“ _Damn_ that woman!” His father cursed. “Find Sansa and bring her to the audience chamber. Her voice may be needed.” Vayon nodded and rode off. "BACK! BACK TO THE INN! ALL BACK!" He shouted.

Him and Jon strode towards the castle in red rage. Jon had scarcely slept in hour since Arya disappeared. He had been weary the whole day but now his fury was on him, filling him with strength.

"She took my daughter without even bringing her to me in the first place, what else can she do?" his father questioned  angrily

Jon looked at his father, "I don't want to know."

"I don't either."

Men called out to them as they crossed the castle yard, but they ignored them in their haste. Jon was sure his father was aware of the eyes that followed him, of the muttered voices wondering what he would do. He too wondered what his father would do, but he was still the king’s Hand, and a Hand must keep his dignity.

The castle was a modest holding a half day’s ride south of the Trident. The royal party had made themselves the uninvited guests of its lord, Ser Raymun Darry, while the hunt for Arya and the butcher’s boy was conducted on both sides of the river. They were not welcome visitors. Ser Raymun lived under the king’s peace, but his family had fought beneath Rhaegar’s dragon banners at the Trident, and his three older brothers had died there, a truth neither Robert nor Ser Raymun had forgotten. With king’s men, Darry men, Lannister men, and Stark men all crammed into a castle far too small for them, tensions burned hot and heavy.

The king had appropriated Ser Raymun’s audience chamber, and that was where Jon and his father found them. The room was crowded when they burst in. Too crowded, he thought; left alone, his father and King Robert might have been able to settle the matter amicably.

King Robert was slumped in Darry’s high seat at the far end of the room, his face closed and sullen. Cersei Lannister and her son stood beside him. The queen had her hand on Joffrey’s shoulder. Thick silken bandages still covered the boy’s arm.

Arya stood in the center of the room, alone but for Jory Cassel, every eye upon her. “Arya,” his father called loudly. He went to her, his boots ringing on the stone floor. When she saw him, she cried out and began to sob.

Father went to one knee and took her in his arms. She was shaking. “I’m sorry,” she sobbed, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

“I know,” he said. She looked so tiny in his father's arms, nothing but a scrawny little girl. It was hard to see how she had caused so much trouble. “Are you hurt?”

“No.” Her face was dirty, and her tears left pink tracks down her cheeks. “Hungry some. I ate some berries, but there was nothing else.”

“We’ll feed you soon enough,” Father promised. He rose to face the king. “What is the meaning of this?” Jon's eyes swept the room, searching for friendly faces. But for Stark men, they were few enough. Ser Raymun Darry guarded his look well. Lord Renly wore a half smile that might mean anything, and old Ser Barristan was grave; the rest were Lannister men, and hostile. Their only good fortune was that both Jaime Lannister and Sandor Clegane were missing, leading searches north of the Trident. “Why was I not told that my daughter had been found?” his father demanded, his voice ringing. “Why was she not brought to me at once?”

His father was speaking to King Robert, but it was Cersei Lannister who answered. “How dare you speak to your king in that manner!”

At that, the king stirred. “Quiet, woman,” he snapped. He straightened in his seat. “I am sorry, Ned. I never meant to frighten the girl. It seemed best to bring her here and get the business done with quickly.”

“And what business is that?” Father put ice in his voice.

The queen stepped forward. “You know full well, Stark. This girl of yours attacked my son. Her and her butcher’s boy. That animal of hers tried to tear his arm off.”

“That’s not true,” Arya said loudly. “She just bit him a little. He was hurting Mycah.”

“Joff told us what happened,” the Queen said. “You and the butcher boy beat him with clubs while you set your wolf on him.”

“That’s not how it was,” Arya said, close to tears again. Father put a hand on her shoulder.

“Yes it is!” Prince Joffrey insisted. “They all attacked me, and she threw Lion’s Tooth in the river!” Jon noticed that he did not so much as glance at Arya as he spoke.

“Liar!” Arya yelled.

“Shut up!” the prince yelled back.

 _“Enough!”_ the king roared, rising from his seat, his voice thick with irritation. Silence fell. He glowered at Arya through his thick beard. “Now, child, you will tell me what happened. Tell it all, and tell it true. It is a great crime to lie to a king.” Then he looked over at his son. “When she is done, you will have your turn. Until then, hold your tongue.”

As Arya began her story, Jon heard the door open behind him. He glanced back and saw Vayon Poole enter with Sansa. They stood quietly at the back of the hall as Arya spoke. When she got to the part where she threw Joffrey’s sword into the middle of the Trident, Renly Baratheon began to laugh. The king bristled. “Ser Barristan, escort my brother from the hall before he chokes.”

Lord Renly stifled his laughter. “My brother is too kind. I can find the door myself.” He bowed to Joffrey. “Perchance later you’ll tell me how a fourteen-year-old girl the size of a wet rat managed to disarm you with a broom handle and throw your sword in the river.” As the door swung shut behind him, Jon heard him say, “Lion’s Tooth,” and guffaw once more.

Prince Joffrey was pale as he began his very different version of events. When his son was done talking, the king rose heavily from his seat, looking like a man who wanted to be anywhere but here. “What in all the seven hells am I supposed to make of this? He says one thing, she says another.”

“They were not the only ones present,” his father said. “Sansa, come here. Tell us what happened.”

His eldest sister stepped forward hesitantly. She was dressed in blue velvets trimmed with white, a silver chain around her neck. Her thick auburn hair had been brushed until it shone. She blinked at her sister, then at the young prince. “I don’t know,” she said tearfully, looking as though she wanted to bolt. “I don’t remember. Everything happened so fast, I didn’t see... ”

“You rotten!” Arya shrieked. She flew at her sister like an arrow, knocking Sansa down to the ground, pummeling her. “Liar, liar, liar, liar.”

“Arya, _stop it!_ ” his father shouted. Jon rushed over and pulled her off her sister, kicking. Sansa was pale and shaking as Father lifted her back to her feet. “Are you hurt?” he asked, but she was staring at Arya, and she did not seem to hear.

“The girl is as wild as that filthy animal of hers,” Cersei Lannister said. “Robert, I want her punished.”

“Seven hells,” Robert swore. “Cersei, look at her. She’s a child. What would you have me do, whip her through the streets? Damn it, children fight. It’s over. No lasting harm was done.”

The queen was furious. “Joff will carry those scars for the rest of his life.”

Robert Baratheon looked at his eldest son. “So he will. Perhaps they will teach him a lesson. Ned, see that your daughter is disciplined. I will do the same with my son.”

“Gladly, Your Grace,” his father said.

King Robert started to walk away, but the queen was not done. “And what of the direwolf?” she called after him. “What of the beast that savaged your son?”

The king stopped, turned back, frowned. “I’d forgotten about the damned wolf.” Arya tensed in Jon's arms. Jory spoke up quickly. “We found no trace of the direwolf, Your Grace.”

Robert did not look unhappy. “No? So be it.”

The queen raised her voice. “A hundred golden dragons to the man who brings me its skin!”

“A costly pelt,” Robert grumbled. “I want no part of this, woman. You can damn well buy your furs with Lannister gold.”

The queen regarded him coolly. “I had not thought you so niggardly. The king I’d thought to wed would have laid a wolfskin across my bed before the sun went down.”

King Robert’s face darkened with anger. “That would be a fine trick, without a wolf.”

“We have a wolf,” Cersei Lannister said. "Two wolves." Her voice was very quiet, but her green eyes shone with triumph.

It took them all a moment to comprehend her words, but when they did, the king shrugged irritably. “As you will. Have Ser Ilyn see to hers.”

“Robert, you cannot mean this,” his father protested.

The king was in no mood for more argument. “Enough, Ned, I will hear no more. A direwolf is a savage beast. Sooner or later it would have turned on your girl the same way the other did on my son. Get her a dog, she’ll be happier for it.”

That was when Sansa finally seemed to comprehend. Her eyes were frightened as they went to Father. “He doesn’t mean Lady, does he?” She saw the truth on his face. “No,” she said. “No, not Lady, Lady didn’t bite anybody, she’s good... ”

“Lady wasn’t there,” Arya shouted angrily. “You leave her alone!”

“Stop them,” Sansa pleaded, “don’t let them do it, please, please, it wasn’t Lady, it was Nymeria, Arya did it, you can’t, it wasn’t Lady, don’t let them hurt Lady, I’ll make her be good, I promise, I promise... ” She started to cry.

His father took her in his arms and held her while she wept. He looked across the room at King Robert. “Please, Robert. For the love you bear me. For the love you bore my sister. Please.”

The king looked at them for a long moment, then turned his eyes on his wife. “Damn you, Cersei,” he said with loathing.

His father stood, gently disengaging himself from Sansa’s grasp. “Do it yourself then, Robert,” he said in a voice cold and sharp as steel. “At least have the courage to do it yourself.”

King Robert looked at his father with flat, dead eyes and left without a word, his footsteps heavy as lead. Silence filled the hall.

“Where is the direwolf?” Cersei Lannister asked when her husband was gone. Beside her, Prince Joffrey was smiling.

“The beast is chained up outside the gatehouse, Your Grace,” Ser Barristan Selmy answered reluctantly.

“Send for Ilyn Payne.”

“No,” Father said. “Jon, take the girls back to their rooms. Jory, bring me Ice. If it must be done, I will do it.”

Cersei Lannister regarded him suspiciously. “You, Stark? Is this some trick? Why would you do such a thing?”

They were all staring at him, but it was Sansa’s look that cut. “She is of the north. She deserves better than a butcher.”

Jon wrapped his arm around Sansa. Her sobs echoed throughout the hall as they walked down and continued as they walked to their rooms. Arya was glowering, a scowl painted upon her face. Arya threw open her door and slammed it shut. Jon opened the door for Sansa and led her into her room. Ghost, who had followed Jon into the hall, had began to nip at her hand. Her crying had stopped and she began to _giggle_.

"Tell him to - " she hiccuped, " - stop." 

"Ghost," Jon gave the direwolf a stern look. He stopped and stared innocently back at Jon. "I'll tell you what Sansa," he began, "I'll let Ghost stay with you for as long as you want. I think Ghost is tired of my company anyways. But I'll have to warn you, his farts can stink up a room for days."

Sansa stared up to him with unfallen tears in her eyes and wet tracks down her cheeks. "Truly?" she asked, hopefulness etched in her voice.

Jon nodded.

She hugged him fiercely. "Thank you," she said breathlessly. 

Jon kissed her brow. "I'm here for you Sansa. Now and always. I'll always be here for you." With that, Jon bid his goodnight and left.

That night, Jon dreamed of a dragon and a direwolf.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed chapter 4! We'll be getting more Barry and Jon action next chapter so get ready for that.


	5. King's Landing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for not updating sooner, was on vacation so never got to write till I came home.
> 
>  
> 
> Scenes from AGOT/season 1.

**JON**

"Here we are," Ser Barristan stated, riding along next to Jon. "King's Landing."

It took a little longer than a moon's turn of riding to get to King's Landing but they were finally here. The bells rung throughout the city, signaling the return of the king and his court. And the first thing that Jon noticed was the stentch. He was able to smell King’s Landing from outside the city walls, that’s how bad it was. Jon had never smelled anything worse than this. Jon must've made a face because Ser Barristan laughed, "The smell is what first timers always mention once they step foot in King's Landing. I should've warned you."

"Aye, you should have." Jon agreed.

The people of King's Landing started to come out of their homes, circling around to see the king and his party enter the city. "The people always love a spectacle. They love to be entertained. They love to see the royal family. That's what I learned when Prince Rhaegar would come out onto the streets of King's Landing, where he would walk among the people and sing to them. He would play his harp for the people." 

Jon remembers what Prince Rhaegar did to his family. How he kidnapped, raped and murdered Lyanna Stark, his aunt. How that kidnapping caused his uncle and grandfather to be executed. How that caused a war that killed thousands of innocents. A war that split families apart, just as all wars did. "The same Prince who kidnapped, raped and murdered my aunt, Lyanna?" Jon asked with clear suspicion etched in his voice.

Ser Barristan sighed, "When I hear that, I never believe it. Not once. Rhaegar never liked killing. He loved singing. Raping and kidnapping? No, never. He was not like his father, he was the finest man I ever met. When I went into the streets of King's Landing with Rhaegar where he sung and played his harp, I would collect the money he would earn."

Jon looked at Ser Barristan quizzically, "He was good?"

"He was very good." Ser Barristan replied with a warm smile.

"What did you do with the money?" Jon asked.

"Well, one time, he gave it to the next minstrel down the street. One time, he gave it to an orphanage in Flea Bottom. One time, we got horribly drunk." Ser Barristan chuckled lightly at that memory and Jon smiled tothe thought of a drunk Ser Barristan.

"He sounded like a good man."

Ser Barristan's smile faded, "He was a great man, a great fighter and a great leader. Killed by His Grace on the Trident." Ser Barristan said solemnly. 

Jon looked around, fully basking in his surroundings. He saw the people of King's Landing make way, coming out onto the streets to catch a glimpse of the royal party. With that, he saw bustling markets and people buying and selling all types of seeds. He saw baskets of seeds being transferred from the seller to the buyer. He saw gold dragons and silver stags and copper pennies being collected by the merchants on the street. He heard the cheers for the king but also there were some jeers from the people of King's Landing. 

As they were traveling down the street, Jon saw the massive curtain walls surrounding a keep, with nests and crenelations for archers. Thick stone parapets, some four feet high, protecting the outer edge of the wall ramparts. The walls has a great bronze gates and a portcullis, with narrow postern doors nearby. He saw a great large head of a stag above the gate they were entering.

They rode through the towering bronze doors of the wall and were welcomed by a large yard, occupied by the City Watch, or famously known as the "gold cloaks". Behind the yard was a keep with pale red stone. It had massive drum-towers crowned with iron ramparts.  _My new home, the Red Keep,_ Jon thought bitterly. 

A servant went up to his father after he got off his horse and exchanged some words to him. His father turned around to the girls' cart, which was in front of Jon and Ser Barristan, and told Septa Mordane, "Get the girls settled in, I'll be back in time for the feast. Jory, you go with them."

"Yes, my Lord." Jory replied. 

Ser Barristan turned to Jon, "You should get settled in too Jon."

Jon started to protest but Ser Barristan waved him off, chuckling, "I'll send for you when I need you, okay? For now, settle in. You’ll need to get use to your new home.”

Jon nodded and dismounted off his horse and a servant took it away. The girls got off their cart, Ghost joining Sansa's side. He has been walking along the cart since Lady died. Jon quickly caught up to the girls, who were being led by some guards. "It's beautiful," Sansa commented in awe, looking at the Red Keep.

"Winterfell is better," Jon countered, Arya nodding in agreement. 

"How could you not like this? This is beautiful! we'll be able to walk around Maegor's Holdfast, explore the Godswoods, or visit the beautiful Sept!" Sansa explained excitedly. Jon was relieved that Sansa didn't mention Joffrey or the queen in her explanation. Jon was wary of the queen and he hated the crown prince Joffrey. Jon thought he was an absolute cunt.

"It's too hot down here," Jon replied.

"So you would rather be freezing up north in Winterfell?" Sansa questioned.

"Aye, I'm more suited for the north than the south. I'm afraid I'll melt down here. I couldn't possibly live here for much longer."

"So why did you come?" Sansa asked, quickly adding, "I'm glad you did but if you don't like it here, why did you come?"

Jon was glad that Sansa was glad that he came. He never had a good relationship with her and he wants to change that now. Jon thought back to what his father said about the Night's Watch, about how it was no honorable order. How rapists were sent there to live out their lives to serve for their crimes. "I didn't know what to expect when I was offered the chance to go south. And besides, how could I just abandon my two sisters? I couldn't just let them walk into the lion's den without some help."

Sansa shifted towards Jon and started to whisper, "I'm scared of him Jon." This frightened Jon. At one point of their journey south, all Sansa could talk about was Joffrey, how he was handsome and strong and tall and smart and just the most perfect prince. But now? Now she doesn't mention him at all whenever Sansa and Jon would talk, which was a lot more often than before. Jon is glad Sansa doesn't trust the queen or Joffrey anymore, but he also doesn't want to frighten Sansa. He wants her only to be happy, not afraid and paranoid about everyone and everything, because that drives people mad.

Sansa is as innocent as she is sweet. But Jon fears Sansa may no longer be sweet and innocent for much longer if she does marry Prince Joffrey.

They were led to the Tower of the Hand, the tower where the Hand of the King and his family stays. Jon, Sansa and Arya were led up a twisting staircase until the arrived in a long plain hallway that was lit by the dim lighting of torches. The hallway fit four bedchambers. Jon's bedchamber was the first one on the right, Sansa's right across from Jon's and Arya's next to Sansa.

When Jon entered his room, he was blown away by how much larger it was than the one in Winterfell. His Winterfell bedchamber was small and tight, but it was good enough for Jon, since he was a bastard. But this one, this one was grand compared to his room in Winterfell. In this room, he could It had large windows that had a beautiful view of King's Landing. The windows also had beautiful, large curtains. The bed, which sat in the back right corner, was large enough to fit three people. The brick stonewalls were uncovered but Jon didn't mind since it reminded him of Winterfell's walls.

Jon moved towards the windows and stared out of them and couldn't help but feel homesick. He loves Winterfell and sparring with Robb and Theon and running around with Arya. It has been his only home his whole life. Now he is down south in King's Landing, hundreds of leagues away from Winterfell. 

Jon sighs and turns away from the window and prepares fire the upcoming feast for the new Hand.

* * *

Jon was sat with the other northmen that joined them south in the Great Hall. It began with King Robert announcing a new tournament for the new Hand aswell. Jon wouldn't have cared for this tournament until he saw Sansa's face light up when it was announced. When he saw the excitement in her face, Jon suddenly felt fired up. He didn't know anything about jousting or how to joust, but now Jon wants to prove himself worthy of... something. Jon doesn't know why he feels the need to prove himself but he just does. Perhaps he wants to prove he's more than a bastard. Perhaps he wants to make his father proud. Perhaps it's because he doesn't want some arrogant southron highborn to win and crown Sansa Queen of Love and Beauty. When he thinks of someone doing that, he feels... jealousy? Why would he be jealous? Perhaps he only wants to protect Sansa. Yeah... that must be it. Only wants to protect her younger sister. It was a joyous occasion for everyone. It was a grand feast, abundant and meat and mead and revelry. But what Jon didn't enjoy was how men were pawing at the serving women, with their wives right there. Jon saw the food being wasted by drunken fools,  _all that food could've been given to the poorer people of this city,_ Jon thinks bitterly.

While Jon was trying to have fun by drinking himself to death, he couldn't help but remember what his father said to him right before the feast;

_"Jon," his father said, looking grim while placing a hand on his shoulder, unable to meet his eyes. Jon looked around, observing his father's new solar. He observeed that it was much more grand and royal than the one in Winterfell. "Lady Catelyn came south secretly with great news and grave news, what would you like to here first?"_

_"The good news."_

_Ned nodded, "Bran has awoken, and is okay but he can't move his legs."_

_Jon let out a sigh of relief. Jon has been worried about Bran and how he would be even though Maester Luwin said he would be fine._

_Ned sighed heavily, "But before Bran awoke, he was attacked. An assassin was sent to kill him for whatever reason. Lady Catelyn was able to defend him off for as long as she could until Bran's direwolf killed him. Lady Catelyn's fingers was cut to the bone due to the blade but she will recover from that. But that's not the grave news. The grave news is that Bran saw something or overheard that caused an assassin to kill him. The blade belongs to the Queen's brother, Tyrion Lannister. Whatever Bran saw or heard was extremely important and the Lannisters didn't want him to spill it so they pushed him out of the window to kill him and when that failed, they sent an assassin to murder him. If this is all true, we must be on our highest guard. We are surrounded by lions. Robert is surrounded by lions. We must be a wolf pack, united to keep ourselves safe, okay? Now don't tell your sisters this, I don't want to frighten them, especially Sansa considering she'll be marrying one. Now, get prepared for the feast Robert wants."_

What did Bran see that would cause him to be a Lannister target? A plot to overthrow the King? A scandalized moment of intimacy that would embarrass the Lannister name? No that can't be it, they wouldn't kill a boy for that. It must've been something far greater. But what would that be?

Jon doesn't want to think about this right now, as he is suppose to celebrate the new Hand of the King. But Jon can't do anything but worry, worry for his father who is now dealing with the lions face-to-face, for Sansa who will have to marry Joffrey and for Arya who if she says or does the wrong thing, who acts upon her feelings rather than what's logical, she may be punished harshly. And Jon feels useless in all of this. Like he can't do anything to help, he just has to sit out and watch. Jon wants to scare them off, to warn them. If only such an opportunity would arise...

 _The tournament!_ Jon thinks excitedly. Perhaps this is the time for Jon to prove himself more than just Ned Stark's bastard. He doesn't expect to win but with the right training, he may do well and get a decent reputation, at least for a bastard.

So Jon looked for the old knight and spots him, helmet off but watching the King's interactions closely with the serving wenches, as if he expects one of them to pull out a knife kill him.

Jon approaches him, "Ser Barristan."

Ser Barristan turned, startled and blinked at him a few times to recognize him before he scrunched his eyebrows together in confusion, "Jon? I told you, I’ll send for you when - "

Jon waved him off, "This isn't about that," Jon explained. "I want to ask you if you could train me."

Ser Barristan looked even more befuddled than before, "Train you? We've agreed to that already on the kingsroad- “

"Not that type of training," Jon explained. "I want to learn how to joust."

"Joust? Why if I may ask?" Ser Barristan questioned.

Jon takes a deep, determined breath, "I want to compete in the upcoming tournament."


	6. The Hand's Tourney

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Scenes from AGOT/season 1.

**SANSA**

Sansa had awoken up to the sounds of sparring from her bedchamber. Curious to see what was happening, Sansa got into a plain and light dress and made her way down and out of the Tower of the Hand. Once out, she saw two men sparring. The old knight named Ser Barristan and her brother Jon. Jon's, who's back was turned to her and was panting heavily, tunic was soaked with sweat, the fabric sticking to his skin, defining his back and shoulder muscles. Sansa couldn't help but stare and admire, thinking how he would look if she could just-

"Didn't think I'd see you out here," said a voice, Sansa quickly identifying it as her father's. The two men started to spar again. Ser Barristan clearly better but Jon holding his own against the great knight. Sansa felt shame creeping up, as she was just fantasying about her _brother,_ which is _extremely_ unladylike and a sin to the gods. 

"I heard noise so I got curious to see what it was," Sansa said as she felt heat rising up to her cheeks.

Father smiled warmly at her, "Come Sansa, let's break our fast together." Father stuck out his arm and Sansa took it. "Jon and Ser Barristan have been training for a few days now. It seems to me that Jon just wants to improve in his sword fighting skills while help Ser Barristan train for the tourney coming up, even though Jon hasn't ever jousted as far as I know."

The Hand's Tourney was in a fortnight and Sansa knew her father was upset about it. Sansa didn't understand how anyone could not like it, where knights in shining armor compete to be able to crown a fair lady the Queen of Love and Beauty. Sansa was excited for this tourney, she has never seen one before so she is excited to see all the knights, it'll be just like the stories and songs. The lady and the knight fall in love and marry and have beautiful children together. Sansa wants that to happen to her and Prince Joffrey but they have been ignoring each other since the kingsroad. Sansa wants her marriage to be happy like her parents’ with Joffrey, she now sees him in a different light. She remembered how he reacted to Arya and Mycah. She remembers the look of contempt he gave her that day, his eyes full of fire and rage and hate. Sansa knew he was no prince from the songs but hopefully their marriage could change that. 

Sansa misses Jon. She misses his presence when ever they broke their fast together on the kingsroad. She didn't ever think spending time with a bastard would be a good thing but now she is ashamed of herself of how she has treated Jon over the years. She never thought that Jon would be her closest and most trusted friend on the kingsroad or in King's Landing, but ever since Jon practically gave her Ghost, she has seen Jon in a different light. They had gotten much closer since that day and Sansa hasn't regretted it. She always thought Jon as broody, and annoying and improper but now she sees Jon as good, kind, and caring. She never realized this side of him but ever since that day, she sees how wrong she was.

Father and Sansa entered the Small Hall of the Tower of the Hand. It was a long room with a high-vaulted ceiling and bench space for two hundred. Ned and Sansa sat at the front table to break their fast like usual and Arya later joined them with Septa Mordane. Slowly, the Hall started to fill with northerners that were brought south to King's Landing from Winterfell. 

Sansa could feel the excitement in the hall, as this was the day where people could begin to write their names on the list for the jousts for the Hand's Tourney. Sansa couldn't wait, a fortnight couldn't come much quicker.

* * *

A fortnight later and the day was here. The Hand's Tourney begins today and the jousting is the first competition. It began with King Robert delivering his commencement speech, welcoming all the lords and ladies in attendance and thanking the competitors for their bravery and promising gold for the victors for each respective competition. Sansa looked at the knights assembled before them, standing front and center was the Kingslayer in his gold armor, either side of him were members of the Kingsguard that decided to compete, their white cloaks flowing in the light breeze. Besides them was a Frey knight and a knight bearing no sigil at all. This knight had hastily assembled armor that didn't truly match, a blank shield, and his helm covering his face completely. He was a much smaller knight compared to the rest of the other competitors but Sansa enjoyed this. Sansa secretly started to root for this knight, as it will be just like the songs, the mystery knight wins the tourney and gets the lady. Whoever this knight was won her heart. 

Sansa looked around the stage, noticing that Arya was nowhere to be found. "Father," Sansa began, gaining attention of her father who sat right next to her, "where is Arya?"

Father began to chuckle lightly, "Your sister somehow stumbled upon a knight who asked her to be his squire."

Sansa's brow furrowed, "She's a lady, how can she squire?"

"I don't know but I couldn't resist with the look she gave me. She must've begged me a thousand times, I had lost count."

"Who is she squiring for?" Sansa asked.

"That mystery knight," Father said, pointing his finger at the knight who bore no sigil.

"Does he have a name?" 

"'The Knight of Wolves', a very good name if I may say so myself. Because of the name alone, I want him to win."

Sitting next to Sansa on her right is Jeyne Poole and next to her is Septa Mordane. Sansa is looking at all of the knights, how all of their armor differs from one another. Sansa spots Yohn Royce in his armor and gets Jeyne's attention by nudging her elbow into her side and pointing towards Yohn Royce, "His armor is bronze, thousands and thousands of years old, engraved with magic runes that ward him against harm,” she whispered to Jeyne. Septa Mordane pointed out Lord Jason Mallister, in indigo chased with silver, the wings of an eagle on his helm. He had cut down three of Rhaegar’s bannermen on the Trident. The girls giggled over the warrior priest Thoros of Myr, with his flapping red robes and shaven head, until the septa told them that he had once scaled the walls of Pyke with a flaming sword in hand.

Rest of the knights strode up in packs of five, showing themselves to the king and the crowd and with the sound of a trumpet blaring, the games had begun. The knights in their shining armor charging each other took Sansa'a breath away. She loved to hear the sound of the crowd or the sound of the banners in the wind. She loved to hear the trumping of horse hooves into the ground. She loved to see all the knights compete just to crown a lady the Queen of Love and Beauty. 

The games had begun and Sansa did not recognize many of the knights. Some, she figured, were from the Fingers and Highgarden and the mountains of Dorne, some were unsung freeriders and new-made squires, and others were the younger sons of high lords and the heirs of lesser houses.  Younger men, most had done no great deeds as yet, but Sansa and Jeyne agreed that one day the Seven Kingdoms would resound to the sound of their names. Ser Balon Swann. Lord Bryce Caron of the Marches. Bronze Yohn’s heir, Ser Andar Royce, and his younger brother Ser Robar, their silvered steel plate filigreed in bronze with the same ancient runes that warded their father. The twins Ser Horas and Ser Hobber, whose shields displayed the grape cluster sigil of the Redwynes, burgundy on blue. Patrek Mallister, Lord Jason’s son. Six Freys of the Crossing: Ser Jared, Ser Hosteen, Ser Danwell, Ser Emmon, Ser Theo, Ser Perwyn, sons and grandsons of old Lord Walder Frey, and his bastard son Martyn Rivers as well. And of course, the Knight of Wolves.

Jeyne Poole confessed herself frightened by the look of Jalabhar Xho, an exile prince from the Summer Isles who wore a cape of green and scarlet feathers over skin as dark as night, but when she saw young Lord Beric Dondarrion, with his hair like red gold and his black shield slashed by lightning, she pronounced herself willing to marry him on the instant.

The Hound entered the lists as well, and so too the king’s brother, handsome Lord Renly of Storm’s End. Jory, Alyn, and Harwin rode for Winterfell and the north. “Jory looks a beggar among these others,” Septa Mordane sniffed when he appeared. Sansa could only agree. Jory’s armor was blue-grey plate without device or ornament, and a thin grey cloak hung from his shoulders like a soiled rag. Yet he acquitted himself well, unhorsing Horas Redwyne in his first joust and one of the Freys in his second. In his third match, he rode three passes at a freerider named Lothor Brune whose armor was as drab as his own. Neither man lost his seat, but Brune’s lance was steadier and his blows better placed, and the king gave him the victory. Alyn and Harwin fared less well; Harwin was unhorsed in his first tilt by Ser Meryn of the Kingsguard, while Alyn fell to Ser Balon Swann.

Sansa was enjoying the jousting until the Knight of Wolves stepped up against a rider she did not know. When the horns blared, the sound that signaled the tilt, Sansa was on the edge of her seat, waiting and hoping the Knight of Wolves would be victorious, and he was. He easily knocked the rider off his mount and was declared victorious. Sansa breathed a sigh of relief and her father chuckled next to her, "We've got a favorite, hm?" wrapping an arm around her, bringing her close to him and pressing his lips to her forehead.

More tilts went on, most of the knights Sansa did not recognize or did not care for as none were the Knight of Wolves. When he stepped up again, facing off another rider, Sansa was once again, on the edge of her seat. She _really_ wanted this knight to win for whatever reason. And when he was victorious yet again, Sansa breathed another sigh of relief.

The tournament was winding down to the elite now. Lord Renly was just unhorsed violently by the Hound and when Lord Renly offered the Hound his gold broken antler that snapped off from his helmet, the Hound just threw it into the crowd, causing a riot until Lord Renly is able to restore order. 

When the Knight of Wolves stepped up once again, his opponent was Ser Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer. The Kingslayer has been riding brilliantly. He had overthrew Ser Andar Royce and the Marcher Lord Bryce Caron as easily as if he were riding at rings, so Sansa was scared that the Kingslayer might unhorse the Knight of Wolves and Sansa couldn't bear to watch it. So when the horns blared and the two riders kicked off with their lances pointing at each other, Sansa covered her eyes, fearing she may see the Knight of Wolves on the ground in dead just like Ser Hugh of the Vale was not so long ago. So when she saw the Kingslayer on the ground clutching his sword arm as he writhes on the ground, Sansa breathed a sigh of relief.

The next tilt was the first tilt of the semi-final, between Ser Loras Tyrell, the Knight of Flowers and Ser Gregor Clegane, The Mountain That Rides. Ser Loras rode up to Sansa and gave her a beautiful red rose and said, "The rose is beautiful but nothing can compete to your beauty."

Normally, Sansa would be overjoyed by this gesture but not today. For today, a different knight had captured her heart. Still, Sansa was flattered and thanked him and hoped that he would beat Ser Gregor. 

Ser Gregor and Ser Loras got to their end of the field and once the horn blared, they took off. Their mounts going at full speed, lances sticking out. And on impact, Ser Gregor flew out of his saddle and onto the ground. Sansa was happy that Ser Loras had won until Ser Gregor, in an act of rage, drew his sword and beheaded his horse. Then he turned his attention to Ser Loras, who had just finished his victory lap and knocked him off his horse in one single strike. Once on the ground, Ser Loras was able to block two strikes from the Mountain until the Hound yelled, "Leave him be!" and rushed to the defense of Ser Loras. The two brothers exchanged strike-for-strike, each parrying the other. The two brothers were equal on skill, no winner would be determined yet-

"STOP THIS MADNESS IN THE NAME OF YOUR KING!" King Robert bellowed. The Hound immediately dropped to a knee and Ser Gregor threw his sword into the dirt in frustration that he couldn't kill his brother and stormed off the field, civilians and guards moving out of the way for Ser Gregor.

Ser Loras went to the Hound's side once he rose, "You saved my life, Ser."

"I'm no Ser," the Hound responded gruffly. 

Ser Loras looked around the crowd, "This man has saved my life, without him, I would be dead. I owe him my thanks, so, I give up my spot in the final to you, Ser," Ser Loras announced to the crowd. The crowd immediately started to cheer for the Hound due to his bravery.

Due to this replacement, the semi-final between the Knight of Wolves was canceled and moved to the final, giving the Knight of Wolves in easy way to the final. So when the Hound got on his mound on one side of the field and the mystery knight on the other, Sansa got very nervous, as she realized, this was the final, the final joust of the competition. She realized that if the mystery knight does win, it'll just be like the songs. 

When the horn blew, everything seemed to go into slow motion. Sandor Clegane was galloping toward the Knight of Wolves. The Hound collides harshly with the lance of the mystery knight, tumbling to the ground upon impact, as the dirt makes a heavy thump.

Sansa gets to her feet and starts cheering and applauding while the crowd erupts into cheers and applauds, chanting the mystery knight's name, 'The Knight of Wolves'. As one, the common folk seem to be entertained by the idea of making tasteless gestures, with several women getting rid of their clothing, throwing them onto the field. It was complete mayham.

For a long moment, the mystery knight allowed his horse to walk to the center of the field, seemingly basking in the cheers of the crowds. The mystery knight then steered his horse to the direction of where Sansa is sitting. His squire, Arya, took control of the steers and it allowed the mystery knight to get off his horse. Arya, hugged the knight tightly and the mystery knight returned it back just as affectionate. People start to get puzzled when Ser Barristan went down and greet the mystery knight, like he was an old friend. The mystery than turned his attention to King Robert and took off his helmet, revealing black curls of hair that Sansa quickly realized it to be her brother and her heart stutters.

Jon got back onto his horse, receiving the crown of the Queen of Love and Beauty and starts to make way to her, with a small smile on his face. Sansa's heart pulses once she realizes what he is doing. "Sansa," Jon says loud and clear, "as my sister, I name you the Queen of Love and Beauty." and placed the crown of flowers on top of her head and Sansa is beaming at Jon. She hears the crowd roar but she only has eyes for Jon. When she turns to her father, she sees a face that she wasn't expecting: face pale and his eyes full of fear. Sansa didn't understand why he would react like this, _his_  son just won  _his_ tournament and  _his_ daughter had been crowned Queen of Love and Beauty. But Sansa didn't care, for this was the best day of her life and this tournament was much better than the songs.


	7. The Wolf and the Lion

**JON**

The days after the tourney went by as quickly as it came for Jon. He gathered bruises from his jousting but it was all worth it. The smile Sansa gave Jon was the most beautiful thing Jon had ever seen. And in that moment, Jon knew. He knew. He knew what he felt for Sansa. It was love, not brotherly love, but romantic love. And Jon was ashamed of it. How could he, a Stark, love his sister like a Targaryen? He felt disgusting and shame and guilt all at once but it was all ignored and forgotten whenever Jon was in her presence.  _I guess I truly am a bastard,_ Jon would think to himself.

During the feast held the first day of the Hand's Tourney, Ser Barristan snuck Jon out of the "Boring feast," and took him to a place that had "the best ale in town!" as he called it and got him mortally drunk while paying for it all. Jon vaguely remembers what happened that night but Ser Barristan assured him that he did no wrong as no wrong as he had watched over him. Jon woke up that morning with his head throbbing. Jon refused to go out that day and demanded Ser Barristan to apologize for getting him this way and all he got was a chuckling and absolutely no remorse Ser Barristan, who half-heartedly apologized and Jon couldn't help but laugh with him.

On the other days of the tournament, Jon sat between Sansa and Arya, Sansa gasping, squealing whenever men would get cut or injured during the Mêlée, finding comfort with Jon but Arya was always on her feet, trying to get a better look and Speta Mordane was always scolding her but Arya ignored her and Father gave up trying to control her and just started to sit back with an amused expression upon his face. After a brutal three-hour fight, Thoros of Myr with his flaming sword stood victorious against the other forty-odd competitors. His flaming sword frightened the mounts of all the other competitors, giving him a huge advantage which he took. And with his skill with the sword, Thoros of Myr was unstoppable and had deservedly won. The competition Jon missed the Archery Competition, and there, Anguy of the Dornish Marches defeated Ser Balon Swann and Prince Jalabhar Xho at a hundred paces after all the other competitors were defeated at shorter ranges.

That night, a feast was held in honor of all the winners and were awarded there winnings. Jon received his 40,000 gold dragons as he won the jousting, the Hound was honored 20,000 gold dragons as he was the runner-up of the jousting, Thoros of Myr was awarded 20,000 gold dragons as he won the Mêlée and Anguy of the Dornish Marches won 10,000 gold dragons as he won the Archery competition. Jon sat at the high table with all the other winners. To the left of Jon was Thoros of Myr, who was more than likely drunk, in a deep discussion with Anguy about the Lord of Light, R'hllor. To the right of Jon was previously Arya but was excused early as the feast was "Boring and stupid." Jon wasn't enjoying one bit of the feast either. He didn't like the spotlight on him as they were only honoring him just for winning a competition. He just wanted to sleep. And to top it off for the night, Jon saw Sansa, who was further down the table, talking and  _enjoying_ the company of the Crown Prince, Joffrey Baratheon. Jon and his disgusting bastardly mind was  _jealous_. He was gripping his cup of wine so tightly that his knuckles were turning white while glaring at the Crown Prince.

"You jealous boy?" Jon jumped in surprise and turned to see Thoros of Myr with an amused expression on his face.

Jon scowled, "She's my  _sister."_

Thoros' grin deepend, "Who said anything about  _romantic_ love? I was simply stating that you wanted to get that little twat away from her. Only  _you_ romanticized it." Jon's mouth went open to protest but no words came out while his face turned to a bright red.

He heard Anguy laughing, "You're torturing the poor boy Thoros," and Thoros joined him in laughing.

"You need a new drink," Thoros suggested. He filled Jon's glass to the brim. Jon glared at Thoros before drinking the whole glass, causing Thoros and Anguy to break into another fit of laughter.

"Shame you aren't a Targaryen boy," Thoros said patting Jon on the back after Jon had finished his glass of wine, "otherwise you would be able to fuck her right here and no one would bat an eye," Thoros said causing another round of laughter from him and Anguy. Jon had enough of the teasing and abruptly stood and stormed off, ignoring the fits of laughter that broke once again from Thoros and Anguy.

_ Drunken fools, all they'll ever be. They'll probably waste their winnings on whores and wine, _  Jon thought bitterly to himself.  _What do they know of_   _me and my life_ _?_  But Jon could try and lie to himself and deny his true feelings for Sansa, but deep down, he knew how he felt. He knew it was wrong and sick and dirty and just like how a bastard would feel about his siblings. He knew Sansa always wanted a prince like Joffrey to be her husband so Jon knew he was doomed from the beginning. What was a worthless and landless bastard compared to anything like the heir to the Iron Throne, Joffrey Baratheon? Of course there is the fact that they are  _siblings_ so he never had a chance in the first place.

Jon entered the familiar hallway that contained his and the girl's bedchamber. Jon was thinking to himself about how he just wanted to run off with Sansa and show her that he could be a better husband than Joffrey could ever be. He may not have lands or much money but he  _would_ shower her in love and affection. He would do whatever it takes to make Sansa-

"Hey Jon?" asked a voice that Jon quickly realized to belong to Sansa. His heart sped up quickly. Jon turned to see Sansa looking very beautiful in her dress.  _I really am sick._ Sansa moved towards Jon. "I've never got to thank you," Sansa said, suddenly becoming interested with the floor.

"For what?" Jon asked.

Sansa stepped closer, meeting his eyes. "For crowning me as Queen of Love and Beauty."

Jon furrowed his brows in confusion. "Who else would I crown?"

"Arya perhaps. Or the queen. Or some other nobleman's daughter." Sansa said.

Jon laughed, "Arya? Do you know our sister?" Jon questioned, causing Sansa to join him in the laughter. "I don't like the queen very much and I don't think any nobleman would be happy if a bastard claimed their daughter Queen of Love and Beauty because they may think I'm claiming her or tainting her with my bastard touch. Besides, there is no one in the world as beautiful as you." Jon said.  _Oh fuck, did I really say that? What if she takes that the wrong way? Wait, what the fuck was the right way in this? What was I thinking?_

When Sansa didn't respond, Jon started to panic more but stopped when she saw she was blushing. Sansa took another step until she was face-to-face with Jon and grabed both of his hands with her's, "Thank you Jon," Sansa said softly and began to caress her thumb on his hand. Jon got lost in her two beautiful blue eyes, unable to think or just  _do_ anything as they were mesmerizing. Sansa leaned in and softly placed a kiss to his right cheek. Sansa pulled back with a gleam in her eyes, smiling brightly at him. "Goodnight Jon." All Jon was able to do was gulp and nod. Sansa took that as her cue to leave and left him to stand there. 

Once her bedchamber door closed, Jon lifted his hand to the spot where Sansa kissed him and he couldn't help but smile. Jon went to sleep that night with the biggest and most stupid grin in the whole of Westeros, just because his love, which was his half-sister, kissed him on his cheek. 

* * *

The next bunch of days went by quickly. Jon learned that Arya was beginning to train with the sword Jon had given her, Needle she called it, with the first sword of Braavos. Jon had promised her to spar with her once she got better with the sword. Jon was continuing to spar with Ser Barristan every morning. Ser Barristan had said that he was improving fast and he was going to become a great swordsman if he kept this training up. Of course Ser Barristan would still beat him but Jon was able to fight back more and more everyday, to a point of actually beating him once. Although he was very lucky that Ser Barristan had somehow managed to slip on his footing which Jon took that to his advantage. Ser Barristan has praised him for that and took him out once again, though he limited his ale consumption this time as it was only morning.

Jon's time with Sansa had been an integral part of Jon's day. Even though Sansa had her duties and Jon had his as a squire, they would always find to meet up in between or after or before. And when they were together, they were inseparable. Sansa and Jon talked about everything under the sun. From how she was with Joffrey, to training with Ser Barristan, to castle gossip around the Red Keep, to the love stories Sansa had read or the war tales Jon had heard. Jon loved those times when they would fill the air with their chatter wherever they were. But also, they were able to sit or walk around in silence comfortably. Jon never felt the need to fill the air with conversation. It felt natural to just _be_ with Sansa. He loved every moment he could get with her and Jon knew he loved her. No matter how wrong it was, it felt natural to him, like it was meant to be. Of course, that's not how life works as he is her  _brother_ and even if he wasn't her brother and he somehow came from another family, he was still a  _bastard._ He was heir to nothing. He had no riches or lands or name, just him and his direwolf, Ghost. Something no lord would accept, especially Father. And Ghost wasn’t really his anymore since he had essentially become Sansa's personal guard. He was always with her, lurking by her side or a few steps behind, warning off anyone who would dare and try to hurt her.

So on this day, Sansa and Jon had decided to eat their midday meal together, like they usually do. But this day was different, Jon could just  _feel_ that something was... off. So when Jon and Sansa approached the Tower of the Hand, there were two Stark guards by the entrance. "Father never puts guards here," Jon commented.

Sansa had a puzzled expression, "You're right, they were never here before."

As the two approached, Jon started to dread the answer he would get to his questions to the guards. "Why are you two here?" Jon asked one of the guards once they approached them. 

"We are here to ensure the safety of Lord Eddard Stark," one of the guards responded.

"But why? Lord Stark never had guards here before?" Jon questioned.

"Lord Stark was attacked on the streets. Jory Cassel, the Captain of the Guard was killed in it with a few others. Lord Stark's leg has been shattered in the fight." The guard replied.

Jon paled and Sansa stiffened at Jon's side, "A-a-attacked? B-by who?!" Jon stammered out.

"Lannisters," was all the guard said.


	8. The Pack

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, 200 Kudos! Thanks to everyone, I genuinely never thought this work would get even 100. Hope you enjoy chapter 6!

**JON**

Jon loved to spend time with his sisters. With Arya, they could relate to a lot. Both were outcasts, as Arya was nothing like the ladies in Winterfell and Jon was a bastard. They both have the Stark look with the dark black hair and the grey eyes of their father. Jon and Arya had always had the best relationship. Jon and Robb were close but Jon and Arya were closer. But when Jon spent time with Sansa, it felt... different. It felt natural in a way, different when Jon was with Arya or Robb. He liked it more and was always looking forward to time spent with Sansa. Perhaps it was because Jon was in love with Sansa. But this was not how Jon wanted to be with his sisters. The first day was the worst day, Sansa was in tears and Arya was raving about how she wanted to kill the Kingslayer with her bare hands for killing Jory and hurting her father. Jon had attempted to calm down Arya, as she can not be too loud as if the wrong person hears her, this scould get much worse. As for Sansa, Jon did his best to cheer her up, demanding someone to get her lemon cakes. But not even that helped. Jon was getting hopeless with his sisters, and as a result of the emotional strain, Jon had shed a few tears alongside Sansa. This was a site that Jon could have never pictured. Lord Eddard Stark, Warden of the North, a man who had fought in two wars and many battles, lying on a bed in a deep sleep, weaker than ever before. 

Ser Barristan had came in, profusely apologizing about what the Kingslayer did, saying he had shamed and tainted the white cloak, saying no knight of the Kingsguard should ever do this. Ser Barristan went on a rant of how the Kingsguard were now just fools of men who did not deserve the same honor as the White Bull or the Sword of the Morning. He also went on to say that the Kingslayer should've taken the black cloak instead of the white cloak. Jon had never seen Ser Barristan this angry before. Ser Barristan later told Jon that he was relieved of his duties from the hunt King Robert plannedon taking after his father awakens.

Grand Maester Pycelle was treating his father’s wounds and informed the trio, Alyn - who's the new captain of the guard - and Vayon Poole that Ned will live and that he has a shattered leg. He went on to say that his father must sleep for a while to allow his leg to heal. 

The next few days, Arya had calmed and Sansa wasn't in tears anymore. They would sit around the bed, just watching, waiting for any sign of movements to see if he would wake. They would only leave when Alyn or Vayon would take them out and make them eat in the Small Hall. Sometimes when they sat around thier father’s bed, they would sit in silence, praying to the Old and New gods for Father to wake up soon and to be heal soon. Other times they would talk of their memories of the time they would spend with their father, and how lucky they were to have him as their father. 

On the sixth day, they were breaking there fast together, Jon, Sansa and Arya. Alyn came to them and informed them that their father was awake and he could see them. The trio all abandoned their food and raced to the stairs, climbing the twisting stair case and barged through the door. Jon came in first, Arya right behind with Sansa not too far behind Arya. They came in to see sitting up the the Hand of the King pin on his chest. "Father," Sansa sobbed. The three ran to him, all hugging him and most likely crushing him at once.

Father was making soothing noises, telling them he was alright and he would be able to walk. "How have you three been, hmm? I've heard that you three had been here all this time."

"We'd never leave your side, Father," Arya sniffed, tears threatening to spill.

Father’s bottom lip wobbled, "Oh please don't cry, I'm okay and you are okay and that's what matters," his father said, his voice cracking.

Jon would be lying if he said he wasn't crying. His vision became blurry due to the unshed tears in his eyes. The three kids were clinging on to their father for dear life as if it was the last time they would see him, and he returned the embrace just as fiercely.

Jon didn't know how much time had passed because it had felt like hours but eventually the trio got off their father. The three of them started to tell him about the days they spent in this room, waiting for him to wake. Then they talked about their memories with Father to see if he remembered, and he did. Every single one. He even added things that made the memory greater. If Jon closed his eyes, he can make himself believe he was back in Winterfell with Robb, Rickon, Bran and even Lady Catelyn. He missed Winterfell a lot.

As dawn turned to dusk, Father sighed after listening and imputing his thoughts into the memories they retold. "I should get prepared for I am reinstated as Hand now," Father said, beginning to rise from the bed. When Father began to slip due to his bad leg, Jon caught him mid-fall and looped his arm underneath his shoulder to keep him standing. Arya rushed to get the walking cane that was resting upon to wall and handed it to Father. Father gave Arya and Jon grateful looks. "I will need to prepare for court in the upcoming days," Father turned to Jon. “I want you to be there, Jon. I want you to experience a southern court and the decisions I or the king would have to make. I want you to see how hard it is to rule, Jon. I need you there."

Jon gave him a puzzled look, "Why father? I'm a bastard, I have no place for court."

Father sighed once again, "I'll need to have atleast one person on my side in court. I know they won't appreciate a northerner sitting upon that damned throne."

"Can I go Father? I've never been in court before and I really want to go Father. Can I please go Father?" Sansa inquired.

Father turned to face Sansa, "I'm afraid this court session wouldn't be one you want to attend, Sansa. For Robert was right, a war is on the horizon. I don't want my eldest daughter to be tainted with the horrors of war. Or any of my children for that matter. War isn't glorious. War isn't honorable. It's painful, long, terrifying. No one is safe in war. Not the nobles in their castles or villagers in their villages. Not the battle commanders or the soldiers. Not even the kings. King's Landing is no longer a safe place for us. I want you three to be back in Winterfell soon. I have to tell Robert something and check my work then send some letters, for a war is coming and this one will be bloody, as is every war."

"Why do you want us to go Father? I have my lessons with Syrio. I'm finally getting good," Arya complained.

"I have to marry Prince Joffrey and have his children Father!" Sansa whined.

"I'm squiring for Ser Barristan, my lord. I don't think he'll appreciate his squire going home when he hasn't even dismissed him." Jon reasoned.

"This isn't a punishment. I want you three back in Winterfell where you will be safe again," Father said.

"Can we bring Syrio with us?" Arya asked.

"Who cares about your stupid dancing teacher? I  _can't_ go. I'm supposed to marry Prince Joffrey. I'm suppose to love him and be his queen and give him beautiful golden haired sons." 

Arya rolled her eyes, "Seven Hells."

Jon felt jealousy at her words.  _You're a bastard Snow, remember that. And her brother damnit._  

Father turned to Sansa, "When you're old enough, I'll make you a match with someone who's worthy of you, someone who's brave, gentle and strong."

Sansa just huffed an annoyance and folded her arms across her chest.

"And what would you have of me, my lord? Lady Catelyn wouldn't want me in Winterfell without you there." Jon asked.

Father avoided Jon's eyes, "I'll have you join the Night's Watch."

Jon's heart dropped. Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw Sansa and Arya expressions turn to shock. "M-my lord, I don't understand. You said-"

"Damnit Jon!" his father yelled, surprising the three. Father rarely rose his voice. "Bringing you here was a mistake. I put you in danger, I put _all_ of us in danger damnit."

"My lord-,"

 _"Enough!" Father_ rose his voice again.  "What is final is final. When you get back to Winterfell, you will have a moon's turn to stay there then you will go north and serve at the Wall where generations of Starks have served. You will be better off there than anywhere else, Jon. Now go, all of you. You must eat your supper." The three nodded and muttered “Yes Father” in unison. They left their father’s bedchamber in a haste.

Jon couldn't believe what he had heard. Actually, he could. This was the punishment for thinking and feeling those vile things about his sister. The Old Gods were punishing him by making him swear a vow of chastity and wasting his life away at the Wall. Jon really was a bastard afterall.


	9. Court

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Scenes from AGOT.

**JON**

Jon was in court, to the left side underneath all the tapestries listening and watching to the petitions the people brought up and to the responses his father, Lord Eddard Stark, Hand of the King, had. But Jon couldn't feel anything but bitterness towards his father. His own father, the man who had offered him the chance to go south originally, is now sending him north to serve at the Wall and Jon couldn’t help but fail to understand why. He had no intent on going south until his father offered him a chance to _go_ south. His father had told him what the Night's Watch was like, he told him the truth of that ancient order. _But now he is punishing me for coming south like it was all my idea anyway,_ Jon thought bitterly to himself. But one thing that Jon couldn't understand was what his father had meant when he said that he had put everyone in danger by bringing him south. As far as Jon knew, he was baseborn as his mother was most likely some tavern wench. After all, he was just a nameless bastard and what harm could a nameless bastard ever inflict upon the powerful Baratheons or Lannisters?

Jon couldn't fathom how this hall had looked before the fall of the Targaryens. He would've loved to see the skulls of the dead dragons hanging down. But now, they were replaced by hunting tapestries, vivid with greens and browns and blues.

Jon looked to his father who looked regal upon the Iron Throne, listening intently on every matter brought to him, despite the fact he isn't king. Jon even thought he looked more kingly than King Robert himself. Even with the injured leg, his father looks like he was meant to rule the Seven Kingdoms. And perhaps he should've. All Jon saw in King Robert was a drunken, whoring man. Jon had no doubt that King Robert had plenty of bastards, some that he probably hadn't even claimed as his own yet. His father looked like he was born to rule, which is ironic considering he was the second child of his family.

"You are quite certain these were more than brigands?" Lord Varys asked softly from the council table beside the throne. Grand Master Pycelle stirred uneasily beside him, while Lord Baelish toyed with a pen. They were the only councilors in attendance for court today. Lord Renly, Ser Barristan, Prince Joffrey, Sandor Clegane, Balon Swann and half the court had joined the king to hunt down a white hart that had been spotted in the Kingwood. Ser Barristan had given Jon leave to help his father due to his shattered leg caused by the Kingslayer.

While his father looked uncomfortable on the Iron Throne, at least he could sit. Save the council, the rest must stand respectfully, or kneel. The petitioners clustered near the tall doors, the knights and high lords and ladies beneath the tapestries like where Jon was, the smallfolk in the gallery, the mailed guards in their cloaks, gold or grey: all stood.

The villagers were kneeling: men, women, and children, alike tattered and bloody, their faces drawn by fear. The three knights who had brought them here to bear witness stood behind them.

" _Brigands,_ Lord Varys?" Ser Raymun Darry's voice dripped with scorn. "Oh, they were brigands, beyond a doubt. Lannister brigands."

A round of shocked gasps and silent whispering passed throughout the court with the mention of the name Lannister. But Jon wasn't surprised. He had heard the rumors that Lady Catelyn had captured Lord Tyrion at an inn on the crossroads and brought him to the Vale where Lady Catelyn’s sister was, Lady Lisa Arryn of the Vale. She was the wife to the late Jon Arryn. While his father didn't say anything to Jon, word spread easily in King's Landing and throughout Westeros. Some whispers said that Lady Catelyn did it on her own. Other said Lord Eddard commanded it to weaken the Lannister influence and power within the realm. But Jon didn’t believe the latter. He knew that was something his father wouldn't do because of what he had said to them, about how terrible war was.

Sad-eyed Ser Karyl Vance, who would have been handsome but for the winestain birthmark that discolored his face, gestured at the kneeling villagers. "This is all the remains of the holdfast of Sherrer, Lord Eddard. The rest are dead, along with the people of Wendish Town and the Mummer's Ford."  

"Rise," his father commanded. "All of you, up."

In ones and twos, the holdfast of Sherrer struggled to its feet. One ancient needed to be helped, and a young girl in a bloody dress stayed in her knees, staring blankly at Ser Arys Oakheart, who stood by the foot of the throne in the white armor of the Kingsguard, ready to protect and defend the king... or, Jon supposed, the king's Hand.

"Joss," Ser Raymun Derry said to a plump balding man in a brewer's apron. "Tell the Hand what happened at Sherrer."

Joss nodded. "If it please His Grace-"

"His Grace is hunting across the Blackwater," Father said. Jon wondered how a man could live his whole life a few days ride from the Red Keep and still have no notion what his king looked like. Jon's father was clad in a white linen doublet with the direwolf of Stark on the breast; his black wool cloak was fastened at the collar by his golden hand of office. Black and white and grey, all shades of truth. "I am Lord Eddard Stark, the king’s Hand. Tell me who you are and what you know of these raiders."

"I keep... I _kept_... I kept an alehouse, m'lord, in Sherrer, by the stone bridge. The finest ale south of the Neck, everyone said so, begging you pardons, m'lord. It's gone now like all the rest, m'lord. They come and drank their fill and spilled the rest before they fired my roof, and they would of spilled my blood too, if they caught me. M'lord."

"They burnt us out," a farmer beside him said. "Come riding in the dark, up from the south, and fired the fields and the houses alike, killing them as tried to stop them. They weren't no raiders, though, m'lord. They had no mind to steal our stock, not these, they butchered my milk cow where she stood and left her for the flies and the crows."

"They rode down my 'prentice boy," said a squat man with a smith's muscles and a bandage around his head. He must’ve had put on his finest clothes to come to court, but his breeches were patched, his cloak travel-stained and dusty, "Chased him back and forth across the fields on their horses, poking at him with their lances like it was a game, them laughing and the boy stumbling and screaming till the big one pierced him clean through."

The girl on her knees craned her head up to his father. "They killed my mother too, Your Grace. And they... they..." Her voice trailed off, as if she had forgotten what she was about to say. She began to sob.

Ser Raymun Darry took up the tale. "At Wendish Town, the people sought shelter in their holdfast, but the walls were timbered. The raiders piled straw against the wood and burnt them all alive, When the Wendish folk opened their gates to flee the fire, they shot them down with arrows as they came running out, even women with suckling babes."

"Oh, dreadful," murmured Lord Varys. "How cruel can men be?"

"They would of done the same for us, but the Sherrer holdfast's made of stone," Joss said. "Some wanted to smoke us out, but the big one said there was riper fruit upriver, and they made for Mummer's Ford."

"What proof do you have that these were Lannisters?" Jon's father asked. "Did they wear crimson cloaks or fly a lion banner?"

"Even Lannisters are not so blind stupid as that," Ser Marq Piper snapped.

"Every man among them was mounted and mailed, my lord," Ser Karyl answered calmly. "They were armed with steel-tipped lances and longswords, with battle-axes for the butchering." He gestured toward one of the ragged survivors. "You. Yes, you, no one's going to hurt you. Tell the Hand what you told me."

The old man bobbed his head. "Concerning their horses," he said, "it were warhorse they rode. Many a year I worked in old Ser Willum's stables, so I knows the difference. Not a one of these ever pulled a plow, gods bear witness if I'm wrong."

"Well-mounted brigands," observed Lord Baelish. "Perhaps they stole the horses from the last place they raided."

"How many men were there in this raiding party?" his father asked.

"A hundred, at least," Joss answered, in the same instant as the bandaged smith said, "Fifty," and the grandmother behind him, "Hunnerds and hunnerds, m'lord, an army they was."

"You are more right than you know, goodwoman," Jon's father told her. "You say they flew no banners. What of the armor they wore? Did any of you note ornaments or decorations, devices on shield or helm?"

The brewer, Joss, shook his head. "It grieves me, m'lord, but no, the armor they showed us was plain, only... the one who led them, he was armored like the rest, but there was no mistaking him all the same. It was the size of him, m'lord. Those as say the giants are all dead never saw this one, I swear. Big as an ox he was, and a voice like stone breaking."

 _"The Mountain!"_ Ser Marq said loudly. "Can any man doubt it? This was Gregor Clegane's work."

Another round of whispers passed through the hall and into the gallery. High lords and smallfolk alike knew what it could mean if Ser Marq was proven right: Ser Gregor Clegane stood bannerman to Lord Tywin Lannister.

Grand Master Pycelle rose ponderously from the council table, his chain of office clinking. "Ser Marq, with respect, you cannot know that this outlaw was Ser Gregor. There are many large men in the realm."

"As large as the Mountain That Rides?" Ser Karyl said. "I have never met one."

"Nor has any man here," Ser Raymun added hotly. “Even his brother is a pup beside him. My lords, open your eyes, do you need to see his seal on the corpses? It was Gregor."

"Why should Ser Gregor turn brigands?" Grand Master Pycelle asked. "By the grace of his liege lord, he holds a stout keep and lands of his own. The man is an anointed knight."

"A false knight!" Ser Marq said. "Lord Tywin's mad dog."

"My lord Hand," Pycelle declared in a stiff voice, "I urge you to remind this _good_ knight that Lord Tywin Lannister is the father of our gracious queen."

"Thank you, Grand Master Pycelle," his father said. "I fear we might have forgotten that if you had not pointed it out."

At the council table below, Lord Baelish lost interest in his quill and leaned forward, "Ser Marq, Ser Karyl, Ser Raymun-perhaps I might ask you a question? These holdfasts were under your protection. Where were you when all this slaughtering and burning was going on?"

Ser Karyl Vance answered. "I was attending my lord father in the pass below the Golden Tooth, as was Ser Marq. When the word of these outrages reached Ser Edmure Tully, he sent word that we should take a small force of men to find what survivors we could and bring them to the king."

Ser Raymun Darry spoke up. "Ser Edmure had summoned me to Riverrun with all my strength. I was camped across the river from his walls, awaiting his commands, when the word reached me. By the time I could return to my own lands, Clegane and his vermin were back across the Red Fork, riding for Lannister's hills."

Lord Baelish stroked the point of his beard thoughtfully. "And if they come again, Ser?"

"If they come again, we'll use their blood to water the fields they burnt," Ser Marq Piper declared hotly.

"Ser Edmure has sent men to every village and holdfast within a day's ride of the border," Ser Karyl explained. "The next raider will not have such and easy time of it."

 _Lord Tywin wants Ser Edmure to scatter his army across_ _his lands,_ Jon thought to himself.  _Riverrun’s_ _weaker._

"If your fields and holdfasts are safe from harm," Lord Baelish was saying, "what then do you ask of the throne?"

"The lords of the Trident keep the king's peace," Ser Raymun Darry said. "The Lannisters have broken it. We ask leave to answer them, steel for steel. We ask justice for the smallfolk of Sherrer and Wendish Town and the Mummer's Ford."

"Edmure agrees, we must pay Gregor Clegane back his bloody coin," Ser Marq declared, "but old Lord Hoster commanded us to come here and beg the king's leave before we strike."

Grand Master Pycelle was on his feet again. "My lord Hand, if these good folk believe that Ser Gregor has forsaken his holy vows for plunder and rape, let them go to his liege lord and make their complaint. These crimes are no concern of the throne. Let them seek Lord Tywin's justice."

"It is all the king's justice," Father told him. "North, south, east, or west, all we do we do in Robert's name."

"The _ki_ _ng's_ justice," Grand Master Pycelle said. "So it is, and so we should defer this matter until the king-"

"The king is hunting across the river and may not return for days," Jon's father said. "Robert bid me to sit here in his place, to listen with his ears, and to speak with his voice. I mean to do just that... though I agree that he must be told." Father turned towards the tapestries. "Ser Robar."

Ser Robar Royce stepped forward and bowed. "My lord."

"Your father is hunting with the king," his father said. "Will you bring them word of what was said and done here today?"

"At once, my lord."

"Do we have your leave to take our vengeance against Ser Gregor, then?" Marq Piper asked the throne.

"Vengeance?" his father said. "I though we were speaking of justice. Burning Clegane's field and slaughter his people will not restore the king's peace, only your injured pride." He glanced away before the young knight could voice his outraged protest, and addressed the villagers. "People of Sherrer, I cannot give you back your homes or your crops, nor can I restore your dead to life. But perhaps I can give you some small measure of justice, in the name of our king, Robert."

Jon watched every eye turn towards his father waiting. Slowly, his father struggled to his feet. "The First Men believed that the judge who called for death should wield the sword, and in the North we hold to that still. I mislike sending another to do my killing... yet it seems I have no choice." He gestured at his broken leg.

 _"Lord Eddard!"_ The shout came from the other side of the hall as a handsome stippling of a knight strode forth boldly. The Knight of Flowers, Ser Loras Tyrell, strode forth. He wore pale blue silk, his belt a linked chain of golden roses, the sigil of his House. "I beg you the honor of acting in your place. Give this task to me, my lord, and I swear I shall not fail you."

Lord Baelish chuckled. "Ser Loras, if we send you off alone, Ser Gregor will send us back your head with a plum stuffed in that pretty mouth of yours. The Mountain is not the sort to bend his neck to any man's justice."

"I do not fear Gregor Clegane," Ser Loras said haughtily.

His father eased himself slowly back onto Aegon's throne. "Lord Beric," he called out. "Thoros of Myr. Ser Gladden. Lord Lothar." The men named stepped forward one by one. "Each of you is to assemble twenty men, to bring my word to Gregor's keep. Twenty of my own guards shall go with you. Lord Beric Dondarrion, you shall have the command, as befits your rank."

The young lord with the red-gold hair bowed. "As you command, Lord Eddard."

His father took a deep breath. "In the name of Robert of the House Baratheon, the First of his Name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, by the word of Eddard of the House Stark, his Hand, I charge you to ride to the westlands with all haste, to cross the Red Fork of the Trident under the king's flag, and there bring the king's justice to the false knight Gregor Clegane, and to all those who shared in his crimes. I denounce him, and attain him, and strip him of all rank and titles, of all lands and incomes and holdings, and do sentence him to death. May the gods take pity on his soul."

When the echo of his words had died away, the Knight of Flowers seemed perplexed. "Lord Eddard, what of me?"

His father turned to him. "No one doubts your valor, Ser Loras, but we are about justice here, and what you seek is vengeance." He then turned back to Lord Beric. "Ride at first light. These things are best done quickly." He held up a hand. "The throne will hear no more petitions today."

Alyn and Porther helped his father down the stairs rising to the throne. Jon saw Ser Loras glare at his father and then storm out of the throne room.

Jon waited under tapestries and watch all the high lords, ladies and smallfolk make their way out of the hall. As Jon was watching, his father approached  with a  _clank_  every step of the way.

His father put his hand on Jon’s shoulder. "How did I do?" his father asked.

Jon's back was still turned to him. "You did well, my lord,” Jon said coolly.

His father sighed. "You're angry with me." 

"I'm not angry, just disappointed."

"Jon..."

"Especially since it is just an order where I'll waste me life away," Jon continued.

"Jon..."

"You even said it yourself. It is not what not an honorable order. But it's fine, I'm only a bastard. My life means nothing after all."

"Jon!" his father rose his voice. It was only the two of them left in the hall. "Your life is not worthless Jon. Don't ever think you life is worthless, because it is not."

Jon whipped around in anger. "Then why are you sending me to the Wall?"

Father sighed and started to speak quietly. "It's for the best -"

 _"Best?"_   Jon said. "You think that the Wall is the best place for me, my lord?"

"Yes." his father said. "Serving at the Night's Watch would be good for you. You'll get to learn from your Uncle Benjen and perhaps one day you can become the Lord Commander. You'll be a great leader one day, I know it."

Jon laughed humorlessly. "Being the leader of a pack of criminals, ah yes. What a great man I would be." Jon turned away from him and walked toward the exit.

"Jon!" his father called back. But Jon didn't care. All his life he has looked up to the man, Lord Eddard Stark. Now, he questioned what had happened to that man.

* * *

**Sansa**

"What happened at court today Jon?" Sansa asked excitedly once Jon sat down at the table where Sansa and Arya were already occupied. Septa Mordane and Jeyne had already finished their mid-day meal and left the Small Hall while Arya continued to eat and Sansa had waited for Jon to come out of court and tell her what had happened.

Jon sighed depressingly. "Nothing fun, if you are wondering."

Sansa observed that Jon looked upset. Sansa knew why, her father was going to send Jon to serve at the Wall for life and Sansa was torn by that. After all, Jon had won a tournament for her and named her Queen of Love and Beauty. That's when she started to feel different about Jon. Every time they had the chance to be with each other, they did it. Sometimes Arya joined them but most of the times it was just the two of them. She always looked forward to spending time with Jon. Her thoughts when she got carried away were always of Jon's luscious black curls and his Stark grey eyes. She never thought of any man like this, not even Joffrey. Whatever she felt for Jon, felt more than brotherly and once she realized that, she felt shame and disgust. How could she love her own brother like _that_? She was suppose to be the perfect lady and later become queen of Westeros and yet she was in love with her brother. Once she realized that though, her father had gotten hurt. Since then, she has been wanting to spend less time with him and ignore her feelings because of how disgusting and improper it was to feel that way about your own _brother._ Yet with one look from him, she felt all the improperness of her feelings fade away. She felt comfortable, more comfortable than with anyone else. Even more than with her own mother. She always felt like she has to _act_ like a lady or else she'll be judged for it. Yet with Jon, she lets her lady-ness down because she knew he won't judge her.

"Are you still going to the Wall?" Arya asked Jon.

Jon turned to her with sad eyes and Sansa knew the answer before he even spoke them. "Aye."

Sansa's heart dropped. The gods were punishing her by sending the man she loved, her _brother,_ away from her for life. It was all her fault too. Jon would have to suffer at the Wall all because of her stupid feelings for him. "Maybe I can convince father to get you to stay with us in Winterfell," Sansa said hopefully.

Jon smiled sadly at her. "Sweet Sansa, father's very stubborn on me going to the Wall. Not even you would be able to change his mind."

Sansa closed her eyes and took a deep breath. This was terrible. Sansa wanted to tell Jon that the Wall is a great place where men serve there for life and protect the realm but even she knew that that's not true and it would just be a feeble attempt at comforting Jon. Sansa opened her eyes to meet Jon's sad gaze. "I'm going to miss you when you leave us."

Jon's sad expression turned to shock, as if he couldn't believe what she said. _Oh Jon, if only you knew the truth, then you would be glad to get away from me,_ Sansa thought bitterly to herself. "Truly? You'll miss me?" Jon asked in disbelief.

Sansa smiled sadly at him. "Of course, you're my brother. You'll always be my brother." _Sadly._

"I'll miss you too, Jon." Arya added, looking close to tears.

"I won't be leaving yet. We still have a moon’s turn together once we get to Winterfell." Jon said. "I'll miss you guys too, you know. All of you. Perhaps I'll come and visit like what Uncle Benjen does."

 _A visit won't be enough to amend my broken heart once you leave us to take the black,_ Sansa thought sadly to herself.


	10. The Stag's Struggle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to shoutout the inspiration for this work, "The Lioness and the Pup" by Jon_Stargaryen. It is a Jon/Cersei work and that may be an odd pairing, but it is a great work that I believe you should check out. I took some of the ideas in it and made it into this work.
> 
> Some of these scenes are from AGOT/season 1.

**JON**

"There's great honor serving in the Night's Watch," his father began, walking with Jon in the sweltering heat of summer in the Red Keep. The light breeze doing little to cool them off. The sound of his crutch echoing in the empty hall, keeping a slow, simple pace. "The Starks have manned the Wall for thousands of years. And you are a Stark. You might not have my name, but you have my blood."

Jon knew this was to reassure him, to make him feel better about serving at the Wall, but that damage had already been done. Jon looked straight ahead and continued to walk with his father. "Is my mother alive? Does she know about me? Where I am? Where I'm going? Does she care?"

Father glanced downward, closing his eyes in what seemed to be pain. "When we get back to Winterfell," Father began, emotion evident within his voice, "we'll talk about your mother. Hm?" his father gave Jon what could be described as a reassuring-but-sad smile. "I promise."

Jon's brow furrowed but nodded. All his life Jon wanted to know who his mother was, where was she, does she even know about him? Now getting an answer to those questions actually  _scared_ Jon. He has already made peace with never knowing but now, he will get an answer and Jon feared the answers he will get.

The sounds of a persons footsteps echoed off the walls.  _"Ned!"_ The call for his Father's name and the desperation of it gained the attention of the two and they whipped around to see Lord Renly Baratheon and two Baratheon guards behind him. Lord Renly was covered in blood and was out of breath. "It's Robert. We were hunting- a boar..." Lord Renly had a look of desperation on his face and he quickly turned around in a fast walking pace. 

The long walk to where King Robert was long and filled with a silent tension. Jon had assumed that King Robert had been in a hunting accident due to the amount of blood on Lord Renly. Jon thought to himself grimly that King Robert may not live. With the amount of blood already on Lord Renly, Jon feared that King Robert could have already been dead, and that would mean Prince Joffrey would rise to the throne and become king.

They walked to Maegor's Holdfast, where the royal apartments were. It was a massive square fortress that nestled in the heart of the Red Keep behind walls twelve feet thick and a dry moat lined up with iron spike, a castle-within-a-castle one could say. Ser Boros Blount stood guarded the far end of the bridge. Jon and his father passed two other knights of the Kingsguard; Ser Preston Greenfield stood at the bottom of the steps, and Ser Barristan Selmy waited at the door of the king's bedchamber. Ser Barristan's face was as pale as his armor.

Fires blazed in the twin hearths at either end of the bedchamber, filling the room with a sullen red glare. The heat within was suffocating. King Robert laid across the canopied bed. At the bedside hovered Grand Maester Pycelle, while Prince Joffrey sat next to his father, holding on to his hand. For a moment, Jon felt for Joffrey. Servants moved back and forth, feeding logs to the fire and boiling wine. Queen Cersei stood over her son, but her eyes were trained on Jon’s father. Her Lannister green eyes followed his father as Jon helped him cross the room.

The king still wore his boots. Jon could see dried mud and blades of grass clinging to the leather where King Robert's feet stuck out beneath the blanket that covered him. A green doublet lay on the floor, slashed open and discarded, the cloth crusted with red-brown stains. The room smelled of smoke and blood and another odd smell that Jon couldn't point out. It was a foul smell but one he hadn't smelled before.  _Death,_ a voice in his head answered.

King Robert noticed his father. "Go on," King Robert told his son, "you don't want to see this."

His son stood abruptly, looking at his father for what may be the last time, and stormed out of the room, moving past Jon and Father. The slam of the bedchamber door reverberate throughout the room.

"Ned," the king whispered. His face was as pale as milk. "Come... closer." 

Jon helped Father to King Robert. Jon could tell the wound was bad by just looking at the king.

"My own fault. Too much wine, damn me to hell. Missed my thrust."

"And where were the rest of you?" Father demanded of Lord Renly. "Where was Ser Barristan and the Kingusguard?" 

Lord Renly's mouth twitched. "My brother commanded us to stand aside and let him take the boat alone." 

Father lifted the blanket.

They had done what they could to close him up, but it was nowhere near enough. The boar must have been a fearsome thing. It had ripped the king from groom to nipple with its tusks. The wine-soaked bandages that Grand Maester Pycelle had applied were already black with blood, and the smell off the wound was hideous. Jon's stomach turned. His father dropped the blanket.

"Stinks," King Robert said. "The stink of death, don't think I can't smell it. Bastard did me good, eh? But I... I paid him back in kind, Ned." The king's smile was as terrible as his wound, his teeth red with blood. "Drove a knife right through his eye. Ask them if I didn't. Ask them."

"Truly," Lord Renly murmured. "We brought the carcass back with us at my brother's command."

"For the feast," King Robert whispered. "Now leave us. The lot of you. I need to speak with Ned." 

"Robert, my sweet lord..." Queen Cersei began.

"I said  _leave,_ " King Robert insisted with a hint of his fierceness. "What part of that don't you understand, woman?"

Queen Cersei gathered up her skirts and her dignity and led the way to the door. Jon looked to his father, his face asking the silent question and his father nodded. Jon followed Lord Renly out of the bedchamber.

Ser Barristan still stood guard of the king's door, his face filled with grief. "Ser Barristan," Jon greeted.

Ser Barristan looked to Jon. "He was reeling from the wine. He commanded us to step aside, but... I failed him."

Jon looked at the knight. The man has seen plenty of wars, hundreds if not thousands of men die, yet he looked so broken and destroyed. Jon wondered how a man could look like that after seeing many men die himself. "You swore to take orders from your king and you did just that. The king chose to dismiss you, not yourself. There was nothing you could have done, Ser Barristan."

"The boy's right, Ser Barristan," Lord Renly said, blood from the boar or from King Robert still fresh on his hands and clothes. "There was nothing you could have done. My brother is a stubborn, drunken fool and he paid the price for it."

Ser Barristan nodded but seemed to not believe the words Jon and Lord Renly spoke. Jon admired Ser Barristan's honor. He admired that he took his oath seriously, and that he would die for his king even if he was a drunken, stubborn fool. Jon hoped he could be like Ser Barristan one day. He may be a bastard, but he believed he has  _some_ honor.  _If you truly had a shred of honor, you wouldn't be in love with your sister,_ Jon thought bitterly.

Father stepped out of the bedchamber. "Maester Pycelle has given Robert the milk of the poppy," his father told Ser Barristan as Lord Renly slipped back into his brother's bedchamber. "See that no one disturbs his rest without leave from me."

"It shall be as you command, my lord." Ser Barristan seemed old beyond his years. "I have failed my sacred trust."

"Even the truest knight cannot protect a king against himself," his father said. "Robert loved to hunt boar. I have seen him take a thousand of them. No one could know this one would be his death."

"You are kind to say so, Lord Eddard."

"The king himself said as much. He blamed the wine."

The white-haired knight gave a weary nod. "His Grace was reeling in his saddle by the time we flushed the boar from his lair, yet he commanded us all to stand aside." 

"I wonder, Ser Barristan," Lord Varys asked quietly, "who gave the king this wine?"

Jon had not heard the infamous eunuch approach, but when he looked around, there he stood. The Master of Whisperers wore a black velvet robe that brushed the floor, and his face was freshly powdered.

"The wine was from the king's own skin," Ser Barristan said.

"Only one skin? Hunting is such a thirsty work."

"I did not keep count. More than one, for a certainty. His squire would fetch him a fresh skin whenever he required it."

"Such a dutiful boy," Lord Varys said, "to make certain His Grace did not lack for a refreshment."

"Which squire?" Jon's father asked.

"The elder," Ser Barristan said. "Lancel."

"I know the lad well," said Lord Varys. "A stalwart boy, Ser Kevan Lannister's son, nephew to Lord Tywin and cousin to the queen. I hope the poor dear sweet lad does not blame himself. Children are so vulnerable in the innocence of their youth, how well do I remember."

Jon thought of his own youth, of Winterfell, of sparring with Robb, of running with Arya. If he could just go back... well he  _was_ going back, just not to stay.

"You mention children. Robert had a change of heart concerning Daenerys Targaryen. Whatever arrangements you made, I want unmade. At once."

"Alas," said Lord Varys. "At once may be too late. I fear those birds have flown. But I shall do what I can, my lord. With your leave." He bowed and vanished down the steps, his soft-soled slippers whispering against the stone as he made his descent.

Jon wondered what King Robert wanted with Daenerys Targaryen. If he was right, she was only a year younger than him. He had heard the stories of the sack of King's Landing, how Gregor Clegane killed Prince Aegon and raped and murdered Elia Martell, how Amory Loch had murdered Princess Rhaeneys. It disgusted and angered Jon to hear those vile accounts of violence. 

Jon was helping his father across the bridge when Lord Renly emerged from Maegor's Holdfast. "Lord Eddard," he called after his father, "a moment, if you would be so kind."

They stopped. "As you wish."

Lord Renly walked to his father's side. "Send your son away." They met in the center of the bridge, the dry moat beneath them.

"Whatever you need to tell me, you may tell it in front of my son," his father regarded him coolly. Jon felt a certain pride at being called his son.

Lord Renly sighed. "Very well," Lord Renly glanced warily at Ser Boros on the far end of the span, at Ser Preston in the doorway behind them. "That letter." He leaned close. "Was it the regency? Has my brother named you Protector?" Lord Renly did not wait for his father's answer. "My lord, I have thirty men in my personal guard, and other friends beside, knights and lords. Give me an hour, and I can put a hundred swords in your hand."

"And what should I do with a hundred swords, my lord?"

" _Strike!_ Tonight, when the castle sleeps." Lord Renly looked back at Ser Boros again and dropped his voice to an urgent whisper. "We must get Joffrey away from his mother and take him in hand. Protector or no, the man who holds the king holds the kingdom. We should seize Myrcella and Tommen as well. Once we have her children, Cersei will not dare oppose us. The council will confirm you as Lord Protector and make Joffrey your ward. Every moment you delay gives Cersei another moment to prepare. By the time Robert dies, it will be too late for the both of us."

"What about Stannis?" Jon's father asked, making Jon confused with what King Robert's oldest brother has to do with anything.

"Saving the Seven Kingdoms from Cersei and delivering them to Stannis?" Lord Renly asked incredulously. "You have odd notions about protecting the realm."

"Stannis is your older brother."

"This isn't about the bloody line of succession. That didn't matter when you rebelled against the Mad King. It shouldn't matter now." Lord Renly said angrily. "What's best for the kingdoms? What's best for the people we rule? We all know what Stannis is. He inspires no love or loyalty. He's not a king... but I am." Lord Renly finished determinedly.

Jon's mind was reeling from the from talk in front of him. His father said that Stannis was the rightful heir, but Prince Joffrey was King Robert's true born son, making  _him_ the rightful heir. But Lord Renly claimed he should be king when his claim is even less than Stannis', which is still less than Joffrey's claim.

"Stannis is a commander." his father gritted out. "He's led men into war, twice. He destroyed the Greyjoy fleet-"

"Yes he's a good soldier. Everyone knows that. So was Robert." Lord Renly pointed out. "Tell me something: do you still believe good soldiers make good kings?"

His father took a deep breath. "I will not dishonor Robert's last hours by shedding blood in his halls and dragging frightened children from their beds."

"The Lannisters are not so merciful, my lord." Lord Renly turned away and went back across the moat, to where his brother laid dying.

The silence that carried until they reached his father's solar was deafening. Jon couldn't understand what was going on and who was going to become king after King Robert. Nothing made sense.

When they arrived to his father's solar, he broke the silence. "I want you to go to the girls and make sure they have packed everything." Jon swallowed and nodded and turned to leave when his father gripped his wrist. Jon turned to face him, "I will tell you everything you need to know tonight but you must be silent about it." his father said. Jon gave him a final nod and he let go of the grasp on his wrist.

For tonight, everything will change.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finally update! I'm sorry for keeping you guys waiting or making you guys think I gave up but I just have been really sick for the past few weeks and with catching up on school work and being sick got me super busy and unable to continue. I hope to not have this long of a wait between updates again and I apologize for making you guys wait this long. Hopefully the wait was worth it!


	11. Chaos

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 300 kudos! Incredible! I never thought this work would get half that, so thank you to everyone who is reading this, it's incredible to think people read and look forward to this. So thank you.
> 
> More scenes from AGOT/season 1.

**JON**

All Jon could think about was what his father was going to tell him. Jon hadn't understood what was going on and his father had promised him to tell it all. Jon wasn't sure if he did want to know, because he was pretty sure whatever Father was going to tell Jon would be the cause of a future war, and this future war could start  _tomorrow_. 

Sansa, for the most part, was glum. She would be leaving Prince Joffrey tomorrow, her bethrothed, to go back north to Winterfell. Jon knew Sansa had been waiting all her life to finally leave Winterfell and when she finally did, it was only for months until returning back north. But Jon couldn't help but rejoice at the fact that Joffrey wouldn't become Sansa's husband.  _She deserves a true knight, not an obnoxious, arrogant, little shit,_ Jon thought to himself.

Surprsingly, Arya was upset too. But she was upset because her dancing teacher won't be able to come north with them, meaning Arya won't be able to continue her lessons. She claimed she was finally getting good aswell. Jon wished he could stay in Winterfell. He would gladly train his sister with her sword. But Jon was going to the Wall, where he'll be more welcomed at least. 

Jon couldn't be more glad to back north. He hated it down here, it was too hot, people had ridiculous styles of hair and clothing and he couldn't wait to get back to Robb. The only thing that made it bearable was Sansa. He liked Ser Barristan but it was Sansa that made it bearable. Once, the court whispers and looks might have made him upset, but now, he didn’t care.  _Let them think,_ Jon would think to himself whenever he got stares or people started to talk around him,  _let them spread their whispers_.

Once it was finally dark out, Jon made his way down to his father's solar. He was anxious to hear what his father knew, for whatever he knew, it seemed to decide who would next sit on the Iron Throne.

Jon stopped in front of the familiar door and nodded to the guard. He knocked.

"It's your son, Jon, my lord," the guard called out.

"Send him in," his father answered, loud and clear.

Jon was shown in.

The roaring hearth lit up the room, giving life and warmth to it. But his father looked cold and grim while writing a letter. He looked as if he had been told that the Others were coming south to kill them all. Jon couldn't make out what he wrote but he wondered if the content of that letter was related to what he was about to tell him. He seemed to be done with the letter as he was signing it at the bottom of the letter. He then blotted the paper, folded it twice, and melted the sealing wax over the candle flame. 

Jon took the seat directly across Father.

Father pressed the dire wolf seal down into the white wax. Father sat back, looking at Jon intently. "You came," he observed.

"I have," Jon agreed, nodding.

"I expected as much." he sighed heavily, as if he was determining the fate of Westeros. Jon could tell it was taking a toll upon him, and Jon didn't like that at all. "I'm sure you would want to know everything, correct?" his father questioned.

Jon nodded.

"Very well," he said, "Prince Joffrey, Princess Myrcella and Prince Tommen, are all bastards."

Jon blinked a few times. He was processing what his father had just told him and he was unable to make much sense of this new information. Jon's brow furrowed.  _"What?!"_ Was Jon's initial reaction. "I just- I don't- I don't understand. How?" 

"Robert never fathered them," he said.

"So who did?"

"The queen's brother, Ser Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer." he replied.

If Jon was out of words before, then he was completely and utterly incapable of forming a complete thought based off this revelation.  _"How?!"_ Jon demanded, incredulously.

"The queen and her brother have been having an affair behind Robert's back all these years. No one knew about it, no one but Jon Arryn. And once he found out, he was poisoned. It's why Bran was pushed, he must've seen them together. It's why they then sent an assassin after him, so he could not retell what he remembered. But it was no matter anyways. Bran doesn't remember what he saw.

"No one had known since, until I discovered it. I have told Queen Cersei that she ought to leave the capitol with her children to escape Robert's wrath. But it appears she wishes to fight back, with steel to get her bastard on the throne. So I have bought the City Watch through Lord Baelish. I intend to give the throne to its rightful heir, Stannis, and once done, I will return north back to Winterfell."

Jon's head was spinning. He couldn't understand. Joffrey, a bastard? The proud Prince Joffrey is worth just as much as himself. The ironies of life.

"And what of Lord Renly? What will he do?" Jon asked.

"I don't know. I pray he lets Stannis be king but I fear he will fight for the throne as well, and if so, the realm will bleed." he said.

Jon nodded absently. His mind was spinning. King Robert could die tomorrow and Prince Joffrey would be king as his mother would will it. His father says he has the City Watch and he seemed confident that he will beat the queen, but Jon saw the queen take down Lady and almost Ghost with just words. What could she do with the gold and power and influence of the Iron Throne behind her? 

"You should get some sleep. Tomorrow, you and the girls will leave this rats nest." hos Father said softy. But when Jon went to his bed, he couldn't sleep. He kept tossing and turning under his furs. His mind was spinning. Four men have a claim on the throne, three of them to be king while one of them wishes to give it up. A war was coming, Jon knew that much. He just hoped he was back in Winterfell for it.

* * *

The morning was overcast and grim. Jon broke his fast with his sisters, Septa Mordane and his father. Sansa was still disconsolate and just stared sullenly at her food and refused to eat, but Arya wolfed down everything that was set in front of her. "Syrio says we have time for one last lesson before we take ship this evening," she said. "Can I, Father? All my things are packed." Jon couldn't help but smile at his sister's eagerness to train.

"A short lesson, and make certain you leave yourself time to bathe and change. I want you ready to leave by midday, is that understood?"

"By midday," Arya said.

Sansa looked up from her food. "If she can have a dancing lesson, why won't you let me say farewell to Prince Joffrey?"

"I would gladly go with her, Lord Eddard," Septa Mordane offered. "There would be no question of her missing the ship."

"It would not be wise for you to go to Joffrey right now, Sansa. I'm sorry."

Sansa laughed humorlessly. "Of course, I shan't visit my betrothed for whatever reason. For my Father has the best judgment." Sansa said sarcastically.

"Sansa, that is no way to talk to your lord father. You should apologize immediately." Septa Mordane scolded.

"It's not  _fair_!" Sansa pushed back from her table, knocked over her chair, and ran from the solar.

Septa Mordane rose, but his father gestured her back to her seat. "Let her go, Septa. I will try to make her understand when we are all safely back in Winterfell." The septa bowed her head and sat down to finish her breakfast.

Once Jon was finished, he planned to make one more visit to say goodbye, to the one person he would be missing, Ser Barristan Selmy.

Jon climbed the stairs of the White Sword Tower, all the way to the top to where the Lord Commander's apartment was. He knocked twice on the oak wood door. The door opened to a half-armored Ser Barristan Selmy. He wore his leggings and boots but his breastplate was missing, he was only wearing his jerkin.

"Jon," Ser Barristan greeted.

"Ser Barristan," Jon replied. "I've came to say goodbye, I am to be a brother of the Nights Watch soon."

Ser Barristan nodded. "You were a great squire. And you are great fighter. Truly. You will do wonders in the Night's Watch. I hope one day I will hear you have been elected as Lord Commander, for you would be a great leader, I already see it in you." 

Jon broke into a wide smile. "It was an honor to server you, Ser. You are a great man and a great mentor. I hope to see you again, Ser Barristan."

Ser Barristan smiled. "And I you, Jon Snow." Ser Barristan stuck out his arm. "This is farewell." Jon took it. "I wish you good fortune in the wars to come, Jon." Ser Barristan said, patting Jon’s arm comfortingly with his free hand. All Jon could do was swallow and nod. He broke free of the embrace and rushed out before he let his emotions take over him. Jon would miss Ser Barristan.

Jon was walking towards his room when he heard the sound of what some would call weeping behind the door that was across his.  _Sansa,_ Jon thought. Jon's heart shattered into a thousand pieces at the sound of it. Jon couldn't bear to hear the sound of Sansa’s heartbreak, so he stepped towards her door and knocked softly on it. "Sansa," Jon called softly.

The weeping suddenly silenced and he heard shuffling beyond the door. The door opens up to a red puffy-eyed Sansa. She wasn't meeting his concerned eyes. "Yes?" Sansa asked in a small voice.

"How are you feeling?" Jon asked stupidly. If Jon could take anything he said back, he would take that back.  _You idiot, how do you think she is feeling?_

Despite his idiotic inquiries, Sansa put up a smile that Jon knew wasn't genuine. "I-I am w-well." Sansa said, still not meeting his eyes.

"Sansa," Jon said, softly once again, "look at me." Sansa lifted her head slowly to meet Jon's eyes. 

And that's when she broke.

Jon rushed forward, pulling her into a tight embrace. Jon never comforted anyone before, for no one would ever want to go to the bastard for help, no one but Arya. Arya was the only person who Jon had comforted. He was the only person who would get her, and he took pride in that. Yet here he was, holding  _Sansa_ , the sister they teased when they were younger and the woman he had now loved. Jon had no idea how to comfort higborn ladies like Sansa. He could comfort Arya because they were both outcasts, but Sansa? He didn't understand her way, her properness. Yet here he was, holding her in his arms. 

Jon was making small circles on the small of her back while his other hand went down the length of her auburn hair. He whispered comforting words into her ear. Jon tried to block the thoughts that came to his mind but he was unsuccessful, for the soft curves of her body felt perfect against his hard and lean length. He truly was a bastard, for only a bastard would think these lustrous thoughts while he holds his half-sister, who is weeping for her bethrothed.

"Come Sansa," Jon began, "let us sit on the bed and we'll talk if you want, okay?" He felt her nod against him so Jon lead them to the bed, sitting down first. Sansa sat next to him and put her head on his shoulder while Jon looped an arm around her waist. Strangely, this felt  _normal_ , as if he was meant to do this.  _I'm no better than the Kingslayer,_ Jon thought bitterly to himself.

"Talk to me Sansa. How can I help?" Jon asked softly.

Sansa sniffed. "A-all my l-life... all my life I've w-wanted to come south to K-King's Landing. And finally... finally I c-come here, betrothed to P-Prince Joffrey no less, thinking it w-was to good to be true... and it was. I was stupid to think  _I_ would become queen. That I would be Joffrey's wife and I would bear his children. Of course I won't... but I didn't expect it to be  _Father_ to be the one to rob me of the chance."

"Sansa," Jon started, "what Father is doing if for your own good-"

"Is it?" Sansa asks. "The match makes sense, a Stark and a Baratheon. It's been tried once before but that was interrupted, so try again. I would be a good queen and a good wife and a good mother. I would bear Joffrey's children and support him as king every step of the way." Sansa finished.

Jon closes his eyes at the sight of auburn haired green-eyed children or blonde haired blue-eyed children. It serves as a reminder of what he, the bastard, could never have. "What Father is doing... he is doing for us, for good of the realm."

"And how would you know?"

"He told me as much." Sansa looked shocked at him. "He told me everything I needed to know, and marrying Joffrey wouldn't help you or the realm, it'll just make it worse."

"How? I still don't understand." Sansa said.

"It's not in my place to say. He told me because I heard talk of... things. I was confused and he explained it to me. Today, Father will do something that I don't feel good about but it will be for the good of the realm." Sansa still looked confused so Jon decides to switch subjects. "Come Sansa," Jon began, rising to his feet, "let us walk and enjoy this shithole once more."

Sansa giggled at the word "shithole". "Jon, that is not a very chivalrous word to use to describe the capitol." Sansa rose to her feet, taking the offered arm. Ghost hopping off her bed, trailing by Sansa's side, getting bigger by the day it seems. Jon considered this interaction a success.

"My lady, if I offended you, I apologize, for I did not mean to offend you, but I can't help but use profanity  to describe this place." Jon said, using his best chivalrous tone.

"Good Ser, it is not me you should apologize to, for it is the castle you offended." Sansa replied, a smile tugging at her lips.

"Ah of course. My castle, I am so very sorry for insulting you by calling you a shithole, I am so very sorry, but it is true nonetheless." 

"Jon! You just ruined the apology!" Sansa scolded, but Jon could see the grin she was failing to hide.

This walk reminded Jon of the walks he had with Sansa before his Father was attacked on the streets. They talked about a variety of subjects, what they loved about King's Landing (in Jon's case, nothing and Sansa's case, everything) and what they hated about King's Landing (in Jon's case, everything and in Sansa's case, nothing). They talked and laughed and japed, it was truly perfect and nothing could ruin it.

"Arya says she is starting to get good with her swordplay, maybe when we are back in Winterfell I will spar with her to see how good she is." Jon said, walking down a corridor, a light breeze coming through the arches.

"She's with her dancing master every morning. She always comes back with scrapes and bruises. She's so clumsy." Sansa bristled.

Jon looked to her, "Are you jealous?" Jon inquires.

"I am not-" 

"Hush," Jon tells her in a whisper, stopping their walk. Jon hears the swords clanging and the armor rattling. Something is happening, something terrible is happening. Ghost is showing his teeth, growling, in a position ready to lunge, and Jon realizes something went wrong.  _"Come on!"_ Jon grabs Sansa's wrist and runs at full speed the way they came from, Ghost right at their side.  _"This way!"_ Jon makes a sharp right, leading their way back towards the Tower of the Hand.

They barge through the door and race up the stairs, they can faintly hear the shouts of command and armor rattling and the swords clanking from behind them, letting them know that they are close. They enter the hallway with their bedchambers and Jon opens his and pushes himself and Sansa through, Ghost not far behind. Jon bars his door.

"This isn't proper-" Sansa begins.

 _"Fuck properness!"_ Jon interrupts. "They are killing _everyone_!"

Sansa's face shifts into fear, "Even Father?" she asks with wide eyes, fear evident within it.

Jon curses himself. "I don't know. But something went wrong." Jon takes a deep breathe and starts to pace around the room. "Arya is still at her lesson, right?" Jon asks.

Sansa nods. Jon curses again. "I need to get her," Jon says determinedly and makes his way to the door, calling Ghost. 

Sansa gets up and moves in front of him. "Are you out of your mind?!"

Jon's brow collapses in confusion. "I need to save Arya-"

 _"You can't!"_ Sansa screeches. "You'll die out there!"

Jon begins to fume. How could she do this? "She's our sister-"

"And what are you going to do? Sneak out and get Arya? And what if they catch you?" Sansa questions Jon intently.

"I know how to swing a sword well, Sansa. And I'll have Ghost with me-"

"Oh good so they'll give me  _both_ of your heads. Is that what you want?"

"I could take them on-"

"Can you?" Sansa interrupts. "I'm sure you can take on one, maybe two, and maybe even three, but a hundred? Can you take on a hundred even  _with_ Ghost?"

Jon sits down on his bed with a defeated sigh and shuts his eyes.  _Oh Father, what have you done?_


	12. Letters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More scenes from AGOT/season 1.

**SANSA**

The bloodshed had continued for another day.

Sansa had wept the first day, Jon holding her close to him, trying to comfort her but even being in his strong arms weren't enough. Father could be dead. Jon didn't believe so yet Sansa wouldn't know. 

Even within the stout walls of the Tower of the Hand, with the door closed and barred, and Jon's arms around her protectively, it was hard not to be terrified when the killing began. She had grown up to the sound of steel in the yard, and scarcely a day of her life had passed without hearing the clash of sword on sword, yet somehow knowing that the fighting was real made all the difference in the world. She heard it as she had never heard it before, and there were other sounds as well, grunts of pain, angry curses, shouts for help, and the moans of wounded and dying men. In the songs, the knights never screamed nor begged for mercy.

So she wept. She wept for Father, for Arya, for her and Jon. She showed her weakness to Jon, for she could no longer be strong. She was a weak, little girl. Jon held her through the night even though she knew it was wrong, she loved him and couldn't care anymore. She was wicked, she knew that much. Yet she couldn't care anymore. Though she could tell that Jon didn’t believe the words he whispered to her while he held her. She could see his eyes distant, as if in another place, and she instantly knew why.  _Arya,_ she thought. Sansa felt a pang of jealousy but she instantly scolded herself internally for even  _thinking_ that, for her sister was lost in King’s Landing at best, and at worst, she ended up in the midst of the fighting.

The second day was even worse. From Jon's window in the Tower of the Hand, she could see that the heavy iron portcullis in the gatehouse was down. Lannister guardsmen prowled the walls with spears and crossbows to hand. The fighting was over, and the silence of the grave had settled over the Red Keep.

They were fed- hard cheese and fresh-baked bread and milk to break their fast, roast chicken and greens at midday, and a late supper of beef and barley's stew- but the servants who brought the meals would not answer Sansa's questions. That evening, some women brought a small portion of her clothes from her room across the hall and when she tried to talk to them, they fled from her as if she had the grey plague. Of course, Ghost’s presence didn’t help.

At sunset on the second day, a great bell began to ring. Its voice was deep and sonorous, and the long slow clanging filled Sansa with a sense of dread. The ringing went on and on, and after a while they heard other bells answering from the Great Sept of Baelor on Visenya’s Hill. The sound rumbled across the city like thunder, warning of the storm to come.

”Why are they ringing the bells?” Sansa asked, fearing the answer to come.

”The King is dead.” Jon answered solemnly, looking out the window. The slow, endless clanging filled their room, as mournful as a dirage.

She went to sleep wondering, restless, and fearful, Jon being her only source of comfort, for his arms enveloping her felt like her Father’s but felt like a lover’s embrace, but she wouldn’t  _dare_ give life to the incestous thoughts in her head, for Jon was an honorable man, not some wicked women like her.

They came for Sansa on the morning of the third day, Ser Bloros Blunt of the Kingsguard came to escort her to the Queen. Ghost had began growling and had positioning himself to lunge, waiting and waiting for the door to open so he could attack, while Jon had begged her not to go, saying it was a trap. But she had no choice, they were outnumbered, and they lack food and water and the weaponry to defend themselves. 

Sansa chose a simple dress of dark grey wool, plainly cut but richly embroidered around the collar and sleeves. Her fingers felt thick and clumsy as she struggled with the silver fastenings without the benefit of servants. Jon had offered to help but she declined, refusing to lose  _this_ fight.

Sansa opend the door, ignoring the pleads of protests from Jon and the growling and snapping of Ghost. Ser Boros was an ugly man with a broad chest and short, bandy legs. His nose was flat, his cheeks baggy with jowls, his hair grey and brittle. Today he wore white velvet, and his snowy cloak was fastend with a lion brooch. The beast had a soft sheen of gold, and his eyes were tiny rubies. “You look very handsome and splendid this morning, Ser Boros,” Sansa told him. A lady always remembered her courtesies, and she was resolved to be a lady no matter what.

”And you, my lady,” Ser Boros said in a flat voice. “Her Grace awaits. Come with me.”

There were guards outside their door, Lannister men-at-arms in crimson cloaks and lion-crested helms. Sansa made herself smile at them pleasantly and bid them a good morning as she passed. It was the first time she had been outside the chamber since she ran with Jon to the there.

Sansa had expected that Ser Boros would excort her to the royal apartments, but instead he led her the opposite direction. He led her out of the middle bailey  and into the outer yard, towards the small council chamber.

They found Queen Cersei in the council chambers, seated at the head of a long table littered with papers, candles, and blocks of sealing wax. The room was as splendid as any that Sansa had ever seen. She stared in awe at the carved wooden screen and the twin sphinxes that sat beside the door.

”Your Grace,” Ser Boros said when they were ushered inside by another of the Kingsguard, Ser Mandon of the curiously dead face, “I’ve brought the girl.”

Prince Joffrey was not there but three of the King’s councilors were. Lord Petyr Baelish sat on the Queen’s left hand, Grand Maester Pycelle at the end of the table, while Lord Varys hovered over them, smelling flowery. All of them were clad in black, she realized with a feeling of dread. Mourning colors...

The Queen wore a high-collared black silk gown, with a hundred dark red rubies sewn into her bodice, covering her from neck to bosom. They were cut in the shape of teardrops, as if the Queen were weeping blood. Cersei smiled to see her. “Sansa, my sweet child,” she said, “I’m sorry I could not send for you sooner. Matters have been very unsettled, and I have not had a moment to spare. I trust my people have been taking good care of you?”

“Everyone has been very sweet and pleasant, Your Grace, thank you ever so much for asking,” Sansa said politely, as a lady would do. “Only, well, no one will ever talk to us what’s happened...”

Cersei only smiles. “Do not fret Sansa, we will find you a new place to stay.”

Sansa’s heart drops. “I-I’m sorry, what?”

”We will find you a new place to stay in Maegor’s Holdfast, away from you brother, for you are our guest of honor,” Cersei says, with a cruel smile.

 _This can’t be happening,_ Sansa thinks to herself. “But-but I don’t understand, he is my brother-“

” _Half_ -brother,” Cersei interrupts. “It wouldn’t be wise for the future queen of Westeros to have her mind plagued by a bastard, whether he is your brother or not.”

Sansa feels the walls closing in. Her comfort, her rock, the only person in this city that is with her is being separated from her. She’ll be all alone in the capitol. She is starting to feel sick. “May I be excused, Your Grace?” Sansa asks politely as she is the perfect lady.

”I wanted to talk to you, Sansa. That’s why I sent for you in the first place, so please,” she patted the chair beside her, “sit down, Sansa. We must talk.” Cersei says politely but Sansa can hear the venom in her voice. It’s subtle, but it’s there. 

Sansa seated herself beside the Queen. Varys was wringing his soft hands together, Grand Maester Pycelle kept his sleepy eyes on the papers in front of him, but she could feel Littlefinger staring. Something about the way the small man looked at her made Sansa feel as though she had no clothes on. Good bumps pimpled her skin.

”Where is my sister?” Sansa demanded a bit harshly so she added, “Your Grace,” softly. 

“Your sister, Arya, is safe in Maegor’s Holdfast, where she is being taken cared of.” Queen Cersei said, with a smile not quite reaching her eyes.

All Sansa could do was sigh of relief, knowing Arya was safe, especially since she can cause problems. “Will I be staying with her, Your Grace?”

“Your sister Arya is a wild girl. She should  _not_ stay with the future bride of our good king, Joffrey. That wild girl would plague her mind just as her bastard brother would.” Grand Maester Pycelle said gruffly.

She was alone, Sansa realized. Lady was taken away from her, then Father and the household guards, then Arya, and then Jon and Ghost. Jon, her love, they would be separated. No doubt Jon would start to panic, Sansa knew that much. He cared deeply for his sisters, yet Sansa knew it wasn’t as deep as her disgusting love. “Will you tell Jon at least that Arya and I are fine, Your Grace?” Sansa asked feebly.

Cersei waved away her concerns. “Yes, yes we will tell your bastard brother if you wish.” Sansa breathed a sigh of relief.

”Sansa,” the Queen started, laying a soft hand on her wrist, “You must know how much Joffrey and I love you.”

”Truly?” Sansa asked, as politely as possible, yet even then it sounded accusatory.

Cersei’s smiled tightened, and so did her hold on her wrist. “I think of you almost as my own daughter. And I know the love you bear for Joffrey.” She have a weary shake of her head. “I am afraid we have some grave news about your lord father. You must be brave, child. For I can only imagaine the tales your bastard brother was spinning.”

Jon had told her everything. From Cersei’s affair with Ser Jaime, to Renly claiming himself king, to Ned planning on taking the throne and giving it to Stannis. Yet Sansa knew if she answered with that, they may hurt Jon for telling her lies as they would call it, and Sansa couldn’t bare to live with herself if they hurt him because of her. So she asked, “What is it?”

”Your father is a traitor, dear.” Lord Varys answered.

Grand Maester Pycelle lifted his ancient head. “With my own ears, I heard Lord Eddard swear to our beloved King Robert that he would protect the young princes as if they were his own sons. And yet the moment the King was dead, he called the small council together to steal Prince Joffrey’s rightful throne.”

”No,” Sansa blurted. “He wouldn’t do that. He  _wouldn’t!_ ” 

The Queen picked up a letter. The paper was torn and stiff with dried blood, but the broken seal was her father’s, the direwolf stamped in pale wax. “We found this on the captain of your household guard, Sansa. It is a letter to my late husband’s brother Stannis, inviting him to take the crown.”

Sansa was silent, unable to deny anything. The proof was there, Lord Stark’s supposed treason. Of course, Stannis  _is_ the rightful heir so he wasn’t committing treason, but the Lannisters would never admit that. Sansa swallowed. “What will happen to him?”

”That depends,” Cersei said.

”On-on what?”

”On you,” Cersei turned to face the others. “My lords, it seems to me that if the rest of her kin were to remain loyal in this terrible time, that would go a long way toward laying our fears to rest.”

Grand Maester Pycelle strokes his huge soft beard, his wide brow furrowed in thought. “Lord Eddard has three sons.”

”Mere boys,” Lord Petyr said with a shrug. “I should be more concerned with Lady Catelyn and the Tullys.”

The Queen took Sansa’s hand in both of hers. “Child, do you know your letters?”

Sansa nodded nervously. She could read and write better than any of her brothers, although she was hopeless at sums.

”I am pleased to hear that. Perhaps there is hope for your father still...”

”What do you want me to do?” 

“You must write to your lady mother, and your brother, the eldest... what is his name?”

”Robb,” Sansa said.

”The word of your lord father’s treason will no doubt reach them soon. Better that it should come from you. You must tell them how Lord Eddard betrayed his king.”

“Your Grace, I wouldn’t know what to say...”

The Queen patted her hand. “We will tell you what to write, child. The important thing is that you urge Lady Catelyn and your brother to keep the king’s peace.”

”It will go hard for them if they don’t,” said Grand Maester Pycelle. “By the love you bear for them, you must urge them to walk the path of wisdom.”

”Your lady mother will no doubt fear for you dreadfully,” the Queen said. “You must tell her that you and Arya are well and in our care, that we are treating you both gently and seeing to your every want. Bid them to come to King’s Landing and pledge their fealty to Joffrey when he takes his throne. If they do that... why, then I see no reason to hold your father prisoner, and when you come to flower of your womanhood, you shall wed the King in the Great Sept of Baelor, before the eyes of gods and men.”

Sansa hesitated. “Perhaps... if I might see my father, talk to him about...”

”Treason?” Lord Varys hinted.

”You disappoint me, Sansa,” the Queen said, with her green eyes gone hard as stones. “We’ve told you of your father’s crimes, why should you want to see him?”

”I... I only meant... “ Sansa felt her eyes grow wet. “He’s not... please, he hasn’t been... hurt, or... or...”

”Lord Eddard has not been harmed,” the Queen said.

This was the way, Sansa realized. Joffrey would beckme king, and if she went to him and pleaded for mercy, she was certain he’d listen. He had to listen, if he truly loved her, like the Queen said. Joff would need to punish Father, the lords would expect it, but perhaps he could send him back to Winterfell, or exile him to one of the Free Cities across the narrow sea. It would only have to be for a few years. By then she and Joffrey would be married. Once she was Queen, she could persuade Joff to bring Father back and grant him a pardon.

Only . . . if Mother or Robb did anything treasonous, called the banners or refused to swear fealty or anything, it would all go wrong.

”I’ll... I’ll write the letters,” Sansa told them.

With a smile, Cersei Lannister leaned close and kissed her gently on the cheek. “I knew you would. Joffrey will be so proud when I tell him what courage and good sense you’ve shown here today.”

In the end, she wrote four letters. To her mother, the Lady Catelyn Stark, and to her brothers at Winterfell, and to her aunt and her grandfather as well, Lady Lysa Arryn of the Eeyrie, and Lord Hoster Tully of Riverrun. By the time she was done, her fingers were cramped and stiff and stained with ink. Varys had her father’s seal. She warmed the pale white beeswax over a candle, poured it carefully, and watched as the eunuch stamped each letter with the direwolf of House Stark.

Ser Mandon Moore led Sansa to her new room of the high tower of Maegor’s Holdfast, with most of her things from the Tower of the Hand. And even with the fire burning at its brightest, it’s heat radiating off the walls of the room, Sansa felt cold. For Jon was no longer with her. And in that moment, Sansa realized she was all alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for not updating sooner. I’ve been super busy lately. I want to update this every weekend but at this rate it may be every two weekends. I’m sorry for this and I will try to write at every moment I can but this may be the new norm.


	13. The Young Stag

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More scenes from AGOT.

**SANSA**

The walls of the throne room had been stripped bare, the hunting tapestries that King Robert loved taken down and stacked in the corner in an untidy heap.

Ser Mandon Moore went to take his place under the throne beside two of his fellows of the Kingsguard. Sansa hovered by the door, for once unguarded. The Queen had given her freedom of the castle as a reward for being good, yet even so, she was escorted everywhere she went. “Honor guards for my daughter-to-be,” the Queen called them, but they did not make Sansa feel honored.

“Freedom of the castle” meant that she could go wherever she chose within the Red Keep so long as she promised not to go beyond the walls, a promise Sansa had been more than willing to give. She couldn’t have gone beyond the walls anyway. The gates were watched day and night by Janos Slynt’s gold cloaks, and Lannister house guards were always about as well. So she had no idea of how Jon and Ghost were. For all she knew, they slit their throats and dumped their bodies in Blackwater Bay. While she could walk in the yard, pick flowers in Myrcella’s garden, visit the sept to pray for her father or the godswood, since the Starks kept the old gods, it wasn’t enough. Jon wasn’t with her. Ghost wasn’t with her. Sansa wondered if she would ever see thrm again, and that thought scared her. She couldn’t bare living if they killed him, for she loved them.

This was the first court session of Joffrey’s reign, so Sansa looked about nervously. A line of Lannister house guards stood beneath the western windows, a line of gold-cloaked City Watchmen beneath the east. Of smallfolk and commoners, she saw no sign, but under the gallery a cluster of lords great and small milled restlessly. There were no more than twenty, where a hundred had been accustomed to wait upon King Robert.

Sansa slipped in among them, murmuring greetings as she worked her way toward the front. She recognized black-skinned Jalabhar Xho, gloomy Ser Aron Santagar, the Redwyne twins Horror and Slobber... only none of them seemed to recognize her. Or if they did, they shied away as if she had the grey plague. Sickly Lord Gyles covered his face at her approach and feigned a fit of coughing, and when funny drunken Ser Dontos started to hail her, Ser Balon Swann whispered in his ear and he turned away.

And so many others were missing. Where had the rest of them gone? Sansa wondered. Vainly, she searched for friendly faces. Not one of them would meet her eyes. It was as if she had become a ghost, dead before her time.

Grand Maester Pycelle was seated alone at the council table, seemingly asleep, his hands clasped together atop his beard. She saw Lord Varys hurry into the hall, his feet making no sound. A moment later Lord Baelish entered through the tall doors in the rear, smiling. He chatted amiably with Ser Balon and Ser Dontos as he made his way to the front. Butterflies fluttered nervously in Sansa’s stomach.

A herald’s voice rang out. “All hail His Grace, Joffrey of the Houses Baratheon and Lannister, the First of his Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, and Lord of the Seven Kingdoms. All hail his lady mother, Cersei of House Lannister, Queen Regent, Light of the West, and Protector of the Realm.”  
Ser Barristan Selmy, resplendent in white plate, led them in. Ser Arys Oakheart escorted the queen, while Ser Boros Blount walked beside Joffrey, so six of the Kingsguard were now in the hall, all the White Swords save Jaime Lannister alone. Joffrey took the Iron Throne, while his mother was seated with the council. Joff wore plush black velvets slashed with crimson, a shimmering cloth- of-gold cape with a high collar, and on his head a golden crown crusted with rubies and black diamonds.

When Joffrey turned to look out over the hall, his eye caught Sansa’s. He smiled, and spoke. “It is a king’s duty to punish the disloyal and reward those who are true. Grand Maester Pycelle, I command you to read my decrees.”

Pycelle pushed himself to his feet. He was clad in a magnificent robe of thick red velvet, with an ermine collar and shiny gold fastenings. From a drooping sleeve, heavy with gilded scrollwork, he drew a parchment, unrolled it, and began to read a long list of names, commanding each in the name of king and council to present themselves and swear their fealty to Joffrey. Failing that, they would be adjudged traitors, their lands and titles forfeit to the throne.

The names he read made Sansa hold her breath. Lord Stannis Baratheon, his lady wife, his daughter. Lord Renly Baratheon. Both Lord Royces and their sons. Ser Loras Tyrell. Lord Mace Tyrell, his brothers, uncles, sons. The red priest, Thoros of Myr. Lord Beric Dondarrion. Lady Lysa Arryn and her son, the little Lord Robert. Lord Hoster Tully, his brother Ser Brynden, his son Ser Edmure. Lord Jason Mallister. Lord Bryce Caron of the Marches. Lord Tytos Blackwood. Lord Walder Frey and his heir Ser Stevron. Lord Karyl Vance. Lord Jonos Bracken. Lady Sheila Whent. Doran Martell, Prince of Dorne, and all his sons. _So many,_  she thought as Pycelle read on and on,  _it will take a whole flock of ravens to send out these commands._

And at the end, near last, came the names Sansa had been dreading. Lady Catelyn Stark. Robb Stark. Brandon Stark, Rickon Stark, Arya Stark. Sansa stifled a gasp.  _Arya._  They wanted Arya to present herself and swear an oath... it must mean her sister had been refusing to. Sansa had been searching for Arya in her time at the Red Keep, but couldn’t find a whiff of her. Sansa wondered if she truly was _even_ in the Red Keep.

Grand Maester Pycelle rolled up the list, tucked it up his left sleeve, and pulled another parchment from his right. He cleared his throat and resumed. “In the place of the traitor Eddard Stark, it is the wish of His Grace that Tywin Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock and Warden of the West, take up the office of Hand of the King, to speak with his voice, lead his armies against his enemies, and carry out his royal will. So the King has decreed. The small council consents.

“In the place of the traitor Stannis Baratheon, it is the wish of His Grace that his lady mother, the Queen Regent Cersei Lannister, who has ever been his staunchest support, be seated upon his small council, that she may help him rule wisely and with justice. So the King has decreed. The small council consents.”

Sansa heard a soft murmuring from the lords around her, but it was quickly stilled. Pycelle continued.

“It is also the wish of His Grace that his loyal servant, Janos Slynt, Commander of the City Watch of King’s Landing, be at once raised to the rank of lord and granted the ancient seat of Harrenhal with all its attendant lands and incomes, and that his sons and grandsons shall hold these honors after him until the end of time. It is moreover his command that Lord Slynt be seated immediately upon his small council, to assist in the governance of the realm. So the King has decreed. The small council consents.”

Sansa glimpsed motion from the corner of her eye as Janos Slynt made his entrance. This time the muttering was louder and angrier. Proud lords whose houses went back thousands of years made way reluctantly for the balding, frog-faced commoner as he marched past. Golden scales had been sewn onto the black velvet of his doublet and rang together softly with each step. His cloak was checked black-and-gold satin. Two ugly boys who must have been his sons went before him, struggling with the weight of a heavy metal shield as tall as they were. For his sigil he had taken a bloody spear, gold on a night-black field. The sight of it raised goose prickles up and down Sansa’s arms.

As Lord Slynt took his place, Grand Maester Pycelle resumed. “Lastly, in these times of treason and turmoil, with our beloved Robert so lately dead, it is the view of the council that the life and safety of King Joffrey is of paramount importance...” He looked to the Queen.

Cersei stood. “Ser Barristan Selmy, stand forth.”

Ser Barristan had been standing at the foot of the Iron Throne, as still as any statue, but now he went to one knee and bowed his head. “Your Grace, I am yours to command.”

“Rise, Ser Barristan,” Cersei Lannister said. “You may remove your helm.”

“My lady?” Standing, the old knight took off his high white helm, though he did not seem to understand why.

“You have served the realm long and faithfully, good ser, and every man and woman in the Seven Kingdoms owes you thanks. Yet now I fear your service is at an end. It is the wish of the King and the small council that you lay down your heavy burden.”

“My... burden? I fear I... I do not...”

The new-made lord, Janos Slynt, spoke up, his voice heavy and blunt. “Her Grace is trying to tell you that you are relieved as Lord Commander of the Kingsguard.”

The tall, white-haired knight seemed to shrink as he stood there, scarcely breathing. “Your Grace,” he said at last. “The Kingsguard is a Sworn Brotherhood. Our vows are taken for life. Only death may relieve the Lord Commander of his sacred trust.”

“Whose death, Ser Barristan?” The Queen’s voice was soft as silk, but her words carried the whole length of the hall. “Yours, or your king’s?”

“You let my father die,” Joffrey said accusingly from his seat on the Iron Throne. “You’re too old to protect anybody.”

Sansa watched as the knight peered up at his new king. She had never seen him look his years before, yet now he did. “Your Grace,” he said. “I was chosen for the White Swords in my twenty-third year. It was all I had ever dreamed, from the moment I first took sword in hand. I gave up all claim to my ancestral keep. The girl I was to wed married my cousin in my place, I had no need of land or sons, my life would be lived for the realm. Ser Gerold Hightower himself heard my vows... to ward the King with all my strength... to give my blood for his... I fought beside the White Bull and Prince Lewyn of Dorne... beside Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning. Before I served your father, I helped shield King Aerys, and his father Jaehaerys before him... three  
kings... ”

“And all of them dead,” Littlefinger pointed out.

“Your time is done,” Cersei Lannister announced. “Joffrey requires men around him who are young and strong. The council has determined that Ser Jaime Lannister will take your place as the Lord Commander of Sworn Brothers of the White Swords.”

“The Kingslayer,” Ser Barristan said, his voice hard with contempt. “The false knight who profaned his blade with the blood of the King he had sworn to defend.”

“Have a care for your words, ser,” the Queen warned. “You are speaking of our beloved brother, your King’s own blood.”

Lord Varys spoke, gentler than the others. “We are not unmindful of your service, good ser. Lord Tywin Lannister has generously agreed to grant you a handsome tract of land north of Lannisport, beside the sea, with gold and men sufficient to build you a stout keep, and servants to see to your every need.”

Ser Barristan looked up sharply. “A hall to die in, and men to bury me. I thank you, my lords... but I spit upon your pity.” He reached up and undid the clasps that held his cloak in place, and the heavy white garment slithered from his shoulders to fall in a heap on the floor. His helmet dropped with a _clang_. “I am a knight,” he told them. He opened the silver fastenings of his breastplate and let that fall as well. “I shall die a knight.”

“A naked knight, it would seem,” quipped Littlefinger.

They all laughed then, Joffrey on his throne, and the lords standing attendance, Janos Slynt and Queen Cersei and Sandor Clegane and even the other men of the Kingsguard, the five who had been his brothers until a moment ago. _Surely that must have hurt the most_ , Sansa thought. Her heart went out to the gallant old man as he stood shamed and red-faced, too angry to speak. Finally he drew his sword.

Sansa heard someone gasp. Ser Boros and Ser Meryn moved forward to confront him, but Ser Barristan froze them in place with a look that dripped contempt. “Have no fear, sers, your King is safe... no thanks to you. Even now, I could cut through the five of you as easy as a dagger cuts cheese. If you would serve under the Kingslayer, not a one of you is fit to wear the white.” He flung his sword at the foot of the Iron Throne. “Here, boy. Melt it down and add it to the others, if you like. It will do you more good than the swords in the hands of these five. Perhaps Lord Stannis will chance to sit on it when he takes your throne.”

He took the long way out, his steps ringing loud against the floor and echoing off the bare stone walls. Lords and ladies parted to let him pass. Not until the pages had closed the great oak-and-bronze doors behind him did Sansa hear sounds again: soft voices, uneasy stirrings, the shuffle of papers from the council table. “He called me _boy_ ,” Joffrey said peevishly, sounding younger than his years. “He talked about my uncle Stannis too.”

“Idle talk,” said Varys the eunuch. “Without meaning... ”

“He could be making plots with my uncles. I want him seized and questioned.” No one moved. Joffrey raised his voice. “I said, _I want him seized!_ ”

Janos Slynt rose from the council table. “My gold cloaks will see to it, Your Grace.”

“Good,” said King Joffrey. Lord Janos strode from the hall, his ugly sons double- stepping to keep up as they lugged the great metal shield with the arms of House Slynt. 

“Your Grace,” Littlefinger reminded the King. “If we might resume, the seven are now six. We find ourselves in need of a new sword for your Kingsguard.”

Joffrey smiled. “Tell them, Mother.”

“The King and council have determined that no man in the Seven Kingdoms is more fit to guard and protect His Grace than his sworn shield, Sandor Clegane.”

“How do you like that, dog?” King Joffrey asked.

The Hound’s scarred face was hard to read. He took a long moment to consider. “Why not? I have no lands nor wife to forsake, and who’d care if I did?” The burned side of his mouth twisted. “But I warn you, I’ll say no knight’s vows.”

“The Sworn Brothers of the Kingsguard have always been knights,” Ser Boros said firmly.

“Until now,” the Hound said in his deep rasp, and Ser Boros fell silent.

When the king’s herald moved forward, Sansa realized the moment was almost at hand. She smoothed down the cloth of her skirt nervously. She was dressed in mourning, as a sign of respect for the dead king, but she had taken special care to make herself beautiful. Her gown was the ivory silk that the Queen had given her, the one Arya had ruined, but she’d had them dye it black and you couldn’t see the stain at all. She had fretted over her jewelry for hours and finally decided upon the elegant simplicity of a plain silver chain.

The herald’s voice boomed out. “If any man in this hall has other matters to set before His Grace, let him speak now or go forth and hold his silence.”

Sansa quailed. _Now_ , she told herself, _I must do it now. Gods give me courage_. She took one step, then another. Lords and knights stepped aside silently to let her pass, and she felt the weight of their eyes on her. _I must be as strong as my lady mother_. “Your Grace,” she called out in a soft, tremulous voice.

The seat of the Iron Throne gave Joffrey a better vantage point than anyone else in the hall. He was the first to see her. “Come forward, my lady,” he called out, smiling.

Sansa lifted her head and walked toward him, not too slow and not too fast. She must not let them see how nervous she was.

“The Lady Sansa, of House Stark,” the herald cried.

She stopped under the throne, at the spot where Ser Barristan’s white cloak lay puddled on the floor beside his helm and breastplate. “Do you have some business for the King and council, Sansa?” the Queen asked from the council table.

“I do.” She knelt on the cloak, so as not to spoil her gown, and looked up at Joffrey sitting atop the Iron Throne. “As it please Your Grace, I ask mercy for my father, Lord Eddard Stark, who was the Hand of the King.” She had practiced the words a hundred times.

The Queen sighed. “Sansa, you disappoint me. What did I tell you about traitor’s blood?”

“Your father has committed grave and terrible crimes, my lady,” Grand Maester Pycelle intoned.

“Ah, poor sad thing,” sighed Varys. “She is only a babe, my lords, she does not know what she asks.”

Sansa had her eyes on Joffrey. _He must listen to me, he must_ , she thought. The new King shifted on his seat, “Let her speak,” he commanded. “I want to hear what she says.”

“Thank you, Your Grace.” Sansa smiled. He was listening. She knew he would.

“Treason is a noxious weed,” Pycelle declared solemnly. “It must be torn up, root and stem and seed, lest new traitors sprout from every roadside.”

“Do you deny your father’s crime?” Lord Baelish asked.

“No, my lords.” Sansa knew better than to defend her father’s actions now. The Lannisters would never admit to her father’s accusations. “I know he must be punished. All I ask is mercy. I know my lord father must regret what he did. He was King Robert’s friend and he loved him, you all know he loved him. He never wanted to be Hand until the King asked him. They must have lied to him. Lord Renly or Lord Stannis or... or somebody, they must have lied, otherwise... ”

King Joffrey leaned forward, hands grasping the arms of the throne. “He said I wasn’t the king. Why did he say that?”

“His leg was broken,” Sansa replied eagerly. Sansa was expecting this question to come up from Joffrey. “It hurt ever so much, Maester Pycelle was giving him milk of the poppy, and they say that milk of the poppy fills your head with clouds. Otherwise he would never have said it.”

Varys said, “A child’s faith... such sweet innocence... and yet, they say wisdom oft comes from the mouths of babes.”

“Treason is treason,” Pycelle replied at once.

Joffrey rocked restlessly on the throne. _Good_ , Sansa thought to herself. _He is taking account my words_. “Mother?” Joffrey asked uncertainly.

Cersei Lannister considered Sansa thoughtfully. “If Lord Eddard were to confess his crime,” she said at last, “we would know he had repented his folly.”

Joffrey pushed himself to his feet. _Please_ , Sansa thought, _please, please, listen to me, I’m to be your wife, please_. “Do you have any more to say?” he asked her.

“Only... that as you love me, you do me this kindness, my prince,” Sansa said.  
King Joffrey looked her up and down.

“Your sweet words have moved me,” he said gallantly, nodding, as if to say all would be well. “I shall do as you ask... but first your father has to confess. He has to confess and say that I’m the king, or there will be no mercy for him.”

“He will,” Sansa said, her heart soaring with relief. “Oh, I know he will.”


	14. Escape

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I did a thing, a couple of things. I completely re-wrote the beginning to this work. It didn't change the plot at all, I just didn't like the beginning. I've always thought it was weak so I though to change it, and I did. If you want to re-read them, chapters 1-5 have changed. If not, you won't be missing on anything important.
> 
> Scenes from ACOK and ASOS.

**SANSA**

"The longer you keep him waiting, the worse it will go for you,” Sandor Clegane warned her.

Sansa tried to hurry, but her fingers fumbled at buttons and knots. The Hound was always rough-tongued, but something in the way he had looked at her filled her with dread. Sansa hadn't known what that meant, she figured it had something to do with Arya, Father, or Jon. She couldn't bear for any of them to be hurt.

When she emerged, Sansa walked on the Hound‟s left, away from the burned side of his face. “Tell me what I've done.”

“Not you. Your bastard brother.”

Sansa stopped short. Jon? What could Jon have done? Had he tried to escape but got caught? Had he died? Had he escaped?

"I wouldn't keep him waiting, little bird." The Hound said. "The King has a temper."

As she walked, her mind began to run. What had Jon done? And what did he mean when he said that Joffrey had a temper? Sansa had seen Joffrey lose his cool once, and that was when he and Arya had fought. She was scared of him then, and if he is anything like that today, she fears what he will do to her.

The Hound conducted her to the foot of the steps leading up to the Iron Throne, where a crowd had gathered around. Men moved aside to let them through. She could hear Lord Gyles coughing.  Ser Horas Redwyne averted his gaze as she passed, and his brother Hobber pretended not to see her.

Joffrey stood in front of his throne, winding an ornate crossbow. Ser Boros and Ser Meryn were with him. 

“Your Grace.” She fell to her knees.

“Kneeling won‟t save you now,” the King said. “Stand up. You're here to answer for your brother's latest treason.”

Treason? "I don't understand, Your Grace. I do not know of what treason my bastard -"

"Get her up!"

The Hound pulled her to her feet, not ungently.

“Ser Lancel,” Joff said, “tell her of this outrage.”

Sansa had always thought Lancel Lannister comely and well spoken, but there was neither pity nor kindness in the look he gave her. “Using some vile sorcery, your bastard brother and his wild wolf has escaped the heavily guarded Tower of the Hand, killing every guard placed in it. Many good men were butchered."

Horror coiled cold hands around Sansa‟s throat. Jon had escaped? And he hadn't come for her?

“You have nothing to say?” asked Joffrey. She didn't answer. "I don't believe you." Joffrey lifted his crossbow and pointed it at her face. “You Starks are as unnatural as those wolves of yours. I've not forgotten how your monster savaged me.”

“That was Arya's wolf,” she said. “Lady never hurt you, but you killed her anyway.”

“No, your father did,” Joff said. "Killing you would send a message throughout Westeros. But my mother insists on keeping you alive. Instead you'll just be punished and we'll send word to your brother about what will happen to you if he doesn't swear his oath. But if you tell us where your bastard brother escaped to, then perhaps I'll stop your punishment. But until then, Boros.”

Ser Boros seized Sansa.

“Leave her face,” Joffrey commanded. “I like her pretty.”

Boros slammed a fist into Sansa‟s belly, driving the air out of her. When she doubled over, the knight grabbed her hair and drew his sword, and for one hideous instant she was certain he meant to open her throat. As he laid the flat of the blade across her thighs, she thought her legs might break from the force of the blow. Sansa screamed. Tears welled in her eyes. She soon lost count of the blows.

“Enough,” she heard the Hound rasp. "The little bird knows nothing. Otherwise, she would have sang a song."

The King took into account the Hounds words. "Ser Boros, refrain from punishing my bride," he commanded. Ser Boros obliged. He sheathed his sword. Sansa stumbled to her knees, her breath ragged.

"But dog," Joff said to the Hound, "you won't ever give me counsel again unless I command it, do you understand?"

The Hound bristled. "As you wish,  _Your Grace_." 

"Good." King Joffrey clapped his hands. "This marks the end of court. Now, get out all of you. Ser Meryn, bring my bride to her chambers."

The court dispersed, all leaving by the two front doors of the Throne Room. Ser Meryn forcefully grabbed Sansa, pulling her back from the floor. Ser Meryn had essentially started to push her towards her bedchamber in Maegor's Holdfast. Sansa noticed where they were walking downwards. They were walking down the same corridor where everything had begun to go south. It was the corridor that had her and Jon's last walk. She felt her eyes begin to sting.

Two Lannister guardsmen rounded the corner, their armor seemed to be hastily put on, for everything seem crooked and asymmetrical. Their helmets closed off their face, blocking off any facial features for Sansa to recgonize. 

They approached Ser Meryn. "What are you doing here?" Ser Meryn questioned annoyed.

"Her Grace has sent us to bring Lady Sansa into her presence, Ser." one of the men said.

Ser Meryn nodded. "Take her," he pushed Sansa towards the two men. The other guard caught her before she fell. Ser Meryn turned to leave.

The two guards shared a looked, and the one holding her nodded. The other guard went behind Ser Meryn and drew his sword. The guard holding her covered her mouth.  _"Don't. Say. Anything."_ the familiar voice whispered into her ear. Sansa looked to the guard, and noticed his eyes.  _Grey_ eyes, like their father's.

"Jon?" Sansa questioned.

He remained silent.

The other guard wacked the flat of his blade against the back of Ser Meryn's head, causing the knight to fall to the ground. He remained still. For a second, Sansa thought he was dead, but realized that his torso had still been inflating and deflating. He was unconscious.

"Quickly," the man who she thought to be was Jon whispered. "We must escape before he wakes or anyone notices their absence."

The other man nodded. "Jon" had brought Sansa to her feet and gave her a cloak. "Wear this," he said in a hushed tone. She put it over her head and "Jon" grasped her wrists tightly.

The other man scouted the area. "It's clear," he he hushed. They rushed towards the Tower of the Hand and entered through a side entrance. They climbed the stairs of the Tower of the Hand and entered through a door. The chamber they were in, Sansa realized, was the Hand's chamber. Her Father's chamber. The other guard led them to the hearth. "Here," he said. "Follow me closely and carefully. It's tight so you will have to crawl, my lady." The hearth was not lit, so the guard entered it on his knees. Sansa followed suite and "Jon" crawled behind her.

The tunnel was extremely cramped, much more than what Sansa expected. Her boots scuffed softly against the stone. They crawled slowly, seemingly counting each step.

Some time later, they approached a shaft. The shaft was black as pitch, but Sansa could feel the cold air flowing from the shaft in front of them, like the gusts of cool wind. Sansa poked about awkwardly with a foot and edged onto the ladder. The shaft was not as cramped as the tunnel though. "Only two hundred and thirty more rungs to go," said "Jon". Rung by rung, they descended into light.  At first, she could not see the rungs at all, they were enclosed in darkness, blinding her from seeing anything. But as she descended, the blackness thinned  _Twenty-six, twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine._ By sixty, her arms trembled with the strain of pushing. She paused a moment to catch her breath and glanced downward. Darkness still covered her vision, but it was lighter than before. Sansa resumed her descent.  _Sixty-eight, sixty-nine, seventy, seventy-one._  By one hundred, her legs burned. The ladder was endless, numbing. _One thirty-six, one thirty-seven, one thirty-eight_. By one hundred and sixty, her back was a dull agony. _Two twenty-six, two twenty-seven._

At two hundred and thirty, she could see the dim outline of each rung as she grasped it, and the rough grey texture of the stone behind. When she got off the ladder, they stepped into a small round chamber. Five other doors opened off the room, each barred in iron. An ornate brazier stood to one side, fashioned in the shape of a dragon’s head. The coals in the beast’s yawning mouth had burnt down to embers, but they still glowed with a sullen orange light. Dim as it was, the light was welcome after the blackness of the shaft.

The juncture was otherwise empty, but on the floor was a mosaic of a three-headed dragon wrought in red and black tiles. There was also a man in the center garbed in a moth-eaten brown robe with a hood that hid his face. "Ah, Lady Stark," the voice of Lord Varys greeted her, "so nice to see you here. And you, Ser Barrstan," he nodded to the guard in front of her, who had taken off his helmet. "And you, Prince Aegon." Sansa looked behind her to see that "Jon" was truly Jon. Jon had a face of contempt, fire evident in his eyes, boring into Lord Varys.

Sansa became confused. "Prince Aegon? I don't understand -"

"It's nothing, Sansa," Jon interrupted, his eyes never leaving the eunuch. 

Lord Varys smirked. Frozen hinges screamed in protest as Varys pulled open a long-closed door. Flakes of rust drifted to the floor. “This will take you out to the river where you will board the Storm Dancer, the same ship your mother took when she made a surprise visit to King's Landing, my lady.”

Sansa couldn't believe what was happening. It was not to long ago where she was being humiliated in front of all the court by getting beat. Now, she is about to escape King Joffrey's cruel reign. Sansa gave the eunuch a grateful smile. "Thank you, my lord. I owe you my life."

Lord Varys smiled, but his smile wasn't directed at her, it was for Jon, who was behind her. "I only serve my prince and the rightful king of Westeros, Prince Aegon Targaryen."

Jon glowered at Lord Varys, and he just giggled. 

The men put back on their helmets and Sansa tightened her cloak around her face. The three walked out and onto the port, with no one batting an eye. They boarded Storm Dancer without any trouble. Sansa stood out on the deck and gave King's Landing one last glance. The Red Keep towered over everything. Her Father was still locked up and Arya seemed to be lost, but now she and Jon were free at last. 

The sails went up, and the ship lifted up its anchor. They sailed north, to home. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the wait again. I've been extremely busy with school and whatnot. I'll try to update quicker next time. I'm sorry for keeping you guys waiting this long. Thanks for reading.


	15. Aegon Targaryen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am sooooo sorry. This chapter should not have taken this long but t did. I got caught up with work from school and not having enough inspiration to write. Mostly because my plot didn’t make sense. So I made changes from my original plan and I am much happier with it. I can’t wait to get to some of the parts I have planned, I think you guys will enjoy it. 
> 
> If there are any of you guys still around, I thank you. I’ve disappointed you guys and my self by taking this long. I hope to never take this long again. 
> 
> Now wee are finally getting into the good stuff. I warn you though, this will start to speed up. The table is set, now we shall see what happens.
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

**AEGON**

Jon Snow. Aegon Targaryen. Two names, yet one person. Or so, Jon thought. Yet he quickly realized that Jon Snow, the bastard boy of Winterfell, and Prince Aegon Targaryen, the last living son of Rhaegar Targaryen, were two completely different people.

The original Prince Aegon got his head smashed in during the sack of King's Landing, while he was born in the Tower of Joy. His father -  or uncle - had come to save his aunt - or mother - from the clutches of the Targaryens. Unbeknownst to him, she had went willingly. She had married an already married man and mothered a child, a legitimate child, in him, Prince Aegon. But he wasn't Prince Aegon, he was Ned Stark's son, albeit a bastard, but still  _his_ son. 

Jon was lost, but he was also angry. Angry at Ned, who gave him the life of a bastard and lied to him all his life. Angry at Rhaegar, for leaving his two children and wife behind for an already betrothed. At Lyanna, for breaking her promise to Robert Baratheon, igniting the flame that would be Robert's Rebellion. Angry at the word  _father,_ for now he doesn't know who to use it for. Jon was hurt and confused by Ned's actions, yet he had still raised him as his own when he could have just thrown him away. Yet Rhaegar was his father by blood, and by Ser Barristan's accounts, he was a great man. Yet how great of a man could be if he was willing to leave his wife and children for a betrothed woman?

There was a knock at his door. "Jon," came the soft voice of his cousin, Sansa, "can I speak with you?"

Jon closed his eyes. He had been expecting this talk for a while. Yet he made no move from his spot on his bed.

"You've been ignoring me for the past four days," her voice came through the oak door. "I've missed you. I just want to talk again. That's it. No more."

It was true, Jon had been ignoring her for the past four days. He had been living in a heaven-hell situation during his time in King's Landing. He had somehow fallen in love with his half sister, knowing he would never get her yet he cherished the time spent with her, which was a lot. During the time that he had spent with her, Jon would occasionally have to restrain himself from kissing her. Yet when he realized that she had became a cousin, he knew he wouldn't be able to control himself. So he adapted. Any interactions with her would be brief, as to make sure Jon wouldn't have enough time to mess up any relationship with Sansa and the Starks.

"Please," she pleaded, "open up. Ser Barristan had told me everything, if that helps."

Of course he had. On the night he heard the pounding on his door, Jon ran to open it, clutching his sword with him. Ghost stayed behind him, snarling, ready to attack. When he had open it, it was Ser Barristan Selmy covered in other men’s blood. He stepped out with Ghost and saw the bloody hallway. Lannister bodies laid sprawled out on the floor, some sat against the wall. He and Ser Barristan took armor and swords. Ser Barristan led the way and he eventually found himself in a secret room with Varys the spider. That was when he got the news. Ever since, Ser Barristan had been saying he should gather support from all loyal Targaryen houses to mount his claim to the throne. Ser Barristan had laid his sword before Jon, and proclaimed him his king. Yet Jon was no king. He had no idea how to act like a lord, albeit rule a kingdom or seven.

"Don't make me open this door Jon," she threatened. "Because I will do it if you do not open the door."

Jon did not doubt his sister's -  _cousin's_ \- ability to smash open doors. It almost made Jon smile. Almost.

Jon moved from his bed and opened the door to see his cousin on the other side. She looked more beautiful and more radiant than ever before. He shook those thoughts out of his head. They've been getting worse since he found out they were cousins, not siblings.

Her eyes never left his face. They were searching him, looking for something. Jon wasn't sure what she wanted, so he moved toward his bed and sat down. Sansa sat down next to him and wrapped her arm around him comfortingly.

"What's the matter, hm?" Sansa inquired concernedly.

"Nothing," he lied. Jon would never tell the truth to Sansa. He knew if he did, he would be banished from Winterfell completely.

Sansa didn't buy it. "You're lying," she said. "If nothing was truly wrong, you would not have been avoiding me as if I have the grey plague."

He sighed. _This wasn't going to be easy_ , Jon decided. _She will want to know everything, something I can't do._

"Is it your parentage? Is that why you are very upset?" she asked. 

Jon closed his eyes. He could feel the tears rushing to escape behind his eyes. "It seems like there's... like there is an impossible choice I have to make. Stark or Targaryen." Jon turned away to not let Sansa witness his tears.

Sansa took her soft hands and wrapped them underneath his jaw and turned his head towards her. Her lips were parted and her eyes were full of concern and... and  _love._ "Our father was more of a father to you than yours ever was," she said softly. 

Jon swallowed, allowing more tears to fall. "He was."

"He's a part of you. Just like he's a part of me." Sansa said. Her eyes never left his, and her soft hand never left his face. "But you don’t need to choose, Jon. Father would never have wanted you to. You're a Targaryen... and you're a Stark."

Jon slowly met her eyes, tears falling out at will now. “Sansa,” he croaked.

”Aegon.”

”Just Jon. Just call me... Jon.” 

She smiled. “Jon,” she said so very softly.

Jon’s eyes betrayed him. His vision faltered to her perfect lips, lips he had been fantasizing about kissing for gods knew how long. He swallowed. “Sansa...” he began, his heart pounding in his chest. “I... I love you.”

Sansa’s eyes widened. “Jon...”

Jon began to panic. “I’m sorry Sansa,” he sputtered out quickly, “I didn’t mean it - I-I mean I do love you but not - I-I’m sorry.” he finished. He looked away shamefully.

“Jon?” Sansa cranked out. Jon looked to her and she looked heartbroken. “You mean you don’t love me like I you? Because... because... I love you.”

Jon’s breath hitched. “Y-you mean as a...” his voice trailed off.

Sansa nodded.

Jon swallowed.

He looked into her Tully blue eyes. They were shining and gorgeous. The fire in his cabin shone off her Tully red hair, making her the most beautiful women he had ever seen. His eyes drifted to her lips. They were parted and soft. 

He leaned in.

It felt like his chest had exploded. His heart thrashed in his chest, fighting like it wanted to escape. Yet it was the sweetest thing that he has ever experienced. 

When they pulled pack, her eyes shone brightly. A tear dropped down her cheek, yet she smiled at him. And he found himself smiling back.

 _What am I doing?_ He thought to himself.  _This could never be, not even in a thousand years._ Yet he found himself not caring. Aegon Targaryen was a prince, not a baseborn bastard. He bore the three-headed dragon as his sigil, he was the son of Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, he was the rightful king of Westeros. He could do as he pleased.

He was going back to Winterfell, his home for the past twenty years. But that wasn’t Jon’s home anymore, no. Stannis Baratheon stayed on Dragonstone for now yes, but Jon will take it back. Then he will sail to King’s Landing and take the Iron Throne, what’s rightfully his. He will kill Joffrey for harming Sansa. Butcher him, most like. Then he will sit on the throne and rule from the seat his Father’s father had sat, and his father and his father before him.

He was no loner Jon Snow. He was Aegon Targaryen.


	16. Winterfell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m so sorry for not updating sooner. I’ve been caught up with work and more sickness. I’m afraid I won’t be able to update within he next month as well since I have APs and finals to study for. I am extremely sorry for taking this long and for probably not going to update as quick as would like. 
> 
> But I just want to thank all of you guys who have come back even after a long vacation. Thank you so much for sticking around. Y’all are the best.
> 
> Scenes from AGOT and GoT s1

**AEGON**

"Winterfell," Ser Wylis Manderly announced. And so it was. In the flat rolling plains of the north, Winterfell stood above all, with its two walls surrounding the ancient keep. Banners flew at the top, each a different color and sigil. Jon spotted them all; the mailed fist of the Glovers, silver on scarlet; the Mormont black bear; the hideous flayed man of the Boltons; a bull moose of the Hornwoods; a battle axe for the Cerwyns; three sentinel trees for the Tallharts; the fearsome sigil of House Umber, a roaring giant in shattered chains. The running grey direwolf on an ice white field of House Stark, the second  highest of them all. And yet, there was another sigil, one he hadn't expected. The sigil of House Targaryen flew above them all. The red three-headed dragon on black of his father and his father before him rose high and mighty. It was like Winterfell was welcoming the Targaryens.

"They await your coming, my prince," Ser Wylis Manderly said, "just as my lord father swore they would.”

"Let us not keep them waiting any longer, ser," Ser Barristan Selmy said. Jon put his heels to his horse and trotted briskly toward Winterfell, trying to catch up to Ghost who had been ahead of them. Sansa and Ser Barristan rode on either side of him. 

Ser Wylis followed with the rest of their small party of seven knights. Lord Wyman had remained at White Harbor to prepare for the rest of the Manderly army and the defenses of White Harbor. A man of near sixty years, he had grown too stout to sit a horse. "If I had thought to see war again in my lifetime, I should have eaten a few less eels," he'd told them when he met their ship, slapping his massive belly with both hands. His fingers were as fat as sausages. "My boy will see you safe to Winterfell, though, have no fear."

His "boy” was much older than Jon, perhaps even older than his uncle. But he both took after his father quite closely. Ser Wylis was only a few eels short of not being able to mount his own horse; he pitied the poor animal. Wylis was quiet and formal, he had an ostentatious walrus mustache and a head as bare as a baby's bottom; he never seemed to own a single garment that was not spotted with food stains. Yet he liked him well enough; he had gotten them to Winterfell, as his father vowed.

After Jon and Sansa's kiss, Jon had decided to spend less time in his cabin in the later half of the voyage. They arrived in White Harbor in a few days and was greeted by Lord Wyman Manderly. The maester of White Harbor had given Sansa a salve to treat the bruises ordered by the bastard king, Joffrey. Jon had never felt as angry as he had when he got to see what Joffrey had done to her. He had vowed to give Joffrey a slow, painful death when he took his throne.

Sansa had begun to sew a rather large cloak since arriving escaping King’s Landing. Whenever they stopped for camp, she would take out the cloak from her saddlebag and work on it. From what Jon had seen, it looked extremely warm and comfortable. Whoever would receive it would be very lucky.

Their band trotted silently towards the double-walled keep of Winterfell. As they approached the gates, the iron portcullis rose and allowed them an entrance into the castle. It was a busy courtyard. Men of all types had many different badges stitched on to their clothing, banners of all sorts flapped in the northern wind. 

As they rode on their horses, the eyes of the courtyard followed them. Jon felt they were concentrating on him. Ever since the ravens flew to every lord in Westeros from Old Town, ever since men began to preach his name in the streets and singers began to sing songs to his name, every man, women, and child in the Seven Kingdoms knew who he was. And these men had definitely heard it too.

”My prince,” a voice said. Jon looked to see his cousin Robb. He had the beginnings of a beard that matched the Tully hair of his. He looked a proper lord now, twenty and all.

Jon dismounted. “My lord,” he nodded. Jon and Robb made their way to each other and tightfully embraced each other in front of the whole courtyard.

”We’ll get him back,” Robb said to him. “I swear it by the Old gods and the New. I’ll do whatever it takes.”

” _We’ll_ do whatever it takes. I’m with you ‘till the very end, my lord.”

”You’re my brother, Jon.” Robb looked him in the eye. “I don’t care what the ravens say. We were raised together as brothers, never forget that.”

Jon smiled. “We have a war to fight. Let us go inside, shall we?”

”Aye, it must’ve been a long ride.”

”It was.” Sansa approached Robb. They embraced each other for a while. 

After the formal greetings of Ser Wylis and the other knights in tow, they went inside the warm walls of Winterfell. It was much better than the cold wind of the north. Jon requested a bath in his bedchamber and fresh new clothing. By the time he was done with the bath, he dressed up in his new leather breeches and boots. He threw on a boiled leather jerkin and a hauberk made of mail on top of that. He shouldered on his fur cloak and went to the Great Hall where the pre-war feast would be hosted.

Robb caught up with him halfway there. “Jon, I want you to lead with me.”

Jon furrowed his eyebrows. “Why? You have many more capable lords-“

”None I trust more than you. You are my brother in all but name and blood. I known you, and you know me. I need you Jon. I can’t lead a war alone.”

Jon nodded determinedly. “As my lord commands.”

Robb smiled. “Come, let’s celebrate one last time. This may be our last feast for awhile.” 

The trestle tables were arranged all over the Great Hall. The banners of all the houses hung upon the walls, decorating the room. Serving wenches came and went, tankards of ale was constantly being filled and replaced. Honeyed chicken, fresh-baked bed and beef and barley stew was the main foods for the feats. The grand hearth warmed the hall from end to end. Robb sat at the head of the table, Jon was to his left and Bran to his right. Right of Bran was Theon Greyjoy and next to Jon was Sansa, as beautiful as ever with the light shimmering off her autumn hair.

Roose Bolton eyed them wairily. His pale pale eyes seemed to look deep into his soul. “Let me have the command, my lords,” he said. He drank no wine or ale and ate very little. “A Bolton should lead the men into battle. Men fear us, and for good reason.” His words reminded Jon of the stories told by Old Nan of the Boltons. He surpressed a chill.

Robett Glover laughed. “Oh Roose,” he began, “frightened little boys suckling on their mother’s tit doesn’t count.” he japed. “But every man knows a Glover is worth ten southerners, my lord. Let me have the honor of command, and you shall see victory.”

Robb smiled cooly. “My lords honor me, yet it pains me that I cannot grant your wishes. My lord father is held captive by Lannister scum. I cannot have another man fight to free him while I stay idle at Winterfell.” Bolton and Glover glowered at their rejected attempts.

“My lord,” Maege Mormont interjected. She was a stout, grey-haired women dressed in mail like a man. “You are young enough to be my grandson. _Both_ of you, in fact. Neither of you have business giving command over me.” 

“Robb is your liege lord, my lady.” Jon countered.

”For now he is, and I pray, what are you? Dragon spawn, for sure. They say every time a Targaryen is born the gods flip a coin. I wonder what side you got, my prince.” 

Robb narrowed his eyes at her. “Jon’s a good man, and a capable leader.”

”Is he? I’ve got to know you. Though my granddaughter could. As it happens, she is my heir’s heir and has no husbands. And I hear both of you have not been bethrothed yet. How lucky. Perhaps my granddaughter could be your betrothed. She’s a good, strong lady, I assure you.”

Jon smiled thinly. “We thank you for the offer, my lady. But trust me, we are not looking for a bride yet as long as my uncle is rotting in a cell in King’s Landing.”

Lady Mormont nodded. “Very well, Aegon Tarygaryen. But don’t come crawling back when she is taken, because she is a one of a kind.”

”I’m sure she is,” Robb said courteously.

”Are you sure you are not looking for a wife, my lords?” Lord Cerwyn asked. To his left sat a plump, homely maid of thirty years. “My daughter may be a little old, but she has plenty of years left for child bearing, trust me. She is a good lady, and will suit your every needs-“

”Oh shut your mouth, Cerwyn,” Maege scolded him. “Our lords don’t want to marry yet. And you’ve been dragging your poor daughter everywhere you go and still haven’t off loaded her. What makes you think our lords would want to carry _that?”_ The poor lady looked close to tears, but Jon couldn’t tell because she kept her eyes trained on the plate of food in front of her.

”We thank you for the honor, Lord Cerwyn, but again we must decline.” Jon answered amicably.

Lord Cerwyn just sighed disappointingly.

”My lord,” jovial Lord Hornwood spoke up next, taking his chance. “Have you had enough time to ponder about my offer? You know, the holdfast taken from my grandfather that _is_ rightfully ours, the permission to hunt north of that ridge, and the leave to dam the White Knife?”

Robb smiled cooly. “My lord is eager to settle these matters, so it seems.”

“No, no, of course not my lord. Please, take as much time as you need-“

”Then I shall. And in the meantime, I will hear no more of it.” Lord Robb commanded.

”Aye, of course. My lord.” Lord Hornwood stuttered out.

The feast continued and the chatter of the lords and knights filled the air. Ale was continually getting refilled, but the food was finished for the night. It wasn’t until a little while longer when the Greatjon Umber rose. He was as tall as Hodor and twice as wide. The man could drink ale as if it was water downed wine. “For thirty-five years I’ve been making corpses out of men, boy. I’m the man you want leading the vanguard.”

Robb looked to Jon. “We will lead the van, my lord.”

The Greatjon ignores him. ”It better not be a Hornwood or a Cerwyn.” he went on. “The bloody Wall will melt before an Umber marches behind _them_.” he said. “I will take my men and march them home if that happens.” the Greatjon declared.

Robb looked at him dangerously. “You are welcome to do so, Lord Umber. And when we are done with the Lannisters, we will march back north, root you out of your keep and hang you for an oathbreaker.” Robb began to scratch Grey Wind behind his ear. 

“Oathbreaker is it? I’ll not stand here and swallow insults from a boy so green he pisses grass!” The Greatjon flung his flagon of ale into the flame. Hallis Mollen went to restrain him but the Greatjon knocked him to the floor, kicked over a table, and unsheathed a greatsword. All along the benches, his sons and brothers and sworn swords leapt to their feet, grabbing for their steel. Other lords and sworn swords shot up with steel in their hand to protect the lord of Winterfell. Ghost began to growl quietly, as Jon unsheathed his sword.

Yet Robb sat and only said a quiet word, and in a snarl and the blink of an eye Lord Umber was on his back, his sword spinning on the floor three feet away and his hand dripping blood where Grey Wind had bitten off two fingers. “My lord father taught me that it was death to bare steel against your liege lord,” Robb said, “but doubtless you only meant to cut my meat.”

The Greatjon struggled to rise, sucking at the red stumps of fingers. “Your meat... is bloody tough.” Astonishingly, the large man began to roar with laughter, and soon after the whole hall joined him.

Another round of ale and all was forgiven, until the Greatjon rose his voice again. “How can we trust _you,_ my prince. Not too long ago you were just a bastard boy. Now you are the lost son of Rhaegar and Lyanna? How do we not know you are only using us to mount a claim to the Iron Throne?”

”I don’t want to lead a kingdom, my lord. That’s how you know.” Jon promised.

The Greatjon eyed him suspiciously. “Is that so? Well, I and many others here don’t trust a bastard, or a Targaryen. And it just so happens you were and are both. How do we know you won’t betray this cause?”

”I have no oother supporters or a claim as well, my lord. I swear it-“

”Words are wind. But where is the proof?” The Greatjon pushed.

”I helped Lady Sansa escape-“

”You, or Ser Barristan the Bold?” 

“Both.”

The Greatjon shook his head. “Not enough.”

Jon frowned, and tried to think of another... yet none came to his head. He couldn’t think of what else he had done to prove his loyalty until Sansa spoke up. “I’ll marry him, and then he’ll be bound by law.”

The hall fell silent. “Sansa, you _can’t...”_

”He’s not our brother, Robb. Our grandparents were cousins.” Sansa explained.

Robb looked dumbfounded, and so did Jon. How could she do this? He has nothing to inherit at all, and she is a powerful lady. The daughter of Winterfell. But when Jon looked to her, she knew that she would dispel all arguments. And it seemed she would have to dispel many arguments based on the faces of the northern lords.

But the Greatjon smiled and nodded. “Very well then. On the morrow Aegon Targaryen will prove his loyalty by marying Sansa Stark. Another flagon of ale for the betrothed, shall we?”


End file.
